The Brave Apprentice (10 page)

Directly before them was an archway that led into the great hall. The girl turned down a parallel corridor instead. She took a torch from a bracket in the wall. Patch followed her up a tightly spiraling windowless staircase, where frost clung to the stone walls and twinkled in the light of the flame.

They emerged into a new corridor above the great hall and stopped when they came to a tall door. The girl rapped on the door three times, pushed it open, and gestured for Patch to go inside.

Patch stepped into the room and pushed back the hood of his brown cape. The room was small, comfortably furnished, and warm. There was a window filled with real glass, in hazy colors that warped the afternoon light. There was a canopied bed, unoccupied, thick with quilts and blankets. A small fire cast an orange glow on the walls, and there were three chairs in front of the fire. A familiar white-haired figure sat in one, bathing in the warmth, sunken and hunched. His shallow breathing was the only sound in the room.

“Will Sweeting?” Patch asked quietly, stepping closer. “You sent for me?”

“Not him, Patch.” A woman stepped out from the corner of the room behind Patch. “I sent the soldiers to bring you here.”

Patch saw the long raven hair and the slim band of gold around her forehead. “I saw you. After the council.”

“Do you know who I am?”

Patch cleared his throat. “The …queen?”

She nodded. “Cecilia.”

Patch opened his mouth, realized he didn’t know what to say, and closed it again. Cecilia smiled. “I heard what happened. I worried what became of you. Especially when your horse came back without its rider.”

Patch lowered his head. “I just thought I should go home. After the trouble I caused …and Gosling …”

The queen took his hand. “Come and sit by the fire.” She took the seat beside Will Sweeting, and Patch took the third chair. “This is his room,” she said, patting the old man’s arm. Sweeting stared into the flames, his head bobbing gently. His breathing fell silent for a moment, then resumed, a little weaker than before. “Be strong for me,” Cecilia whispered to him, squeezing his arm. “Stay with us a little longer, old friend.”

Patch said, “He was a real hero, wasn’t he?”

“Oh, yes.” The queen pointed to the wall beside the hearth. A wide strip of heavy white cloth hung there, yellowed with age and frayed along the sides, hanging from a buckle that was looped over a nail.
A belt,
Patch realized. Words had been written in red thread along its length, in uneven stitches that betrayed the exhilaration of the young man who wielded the needle. Patch tilted his head to read the words aloud: “Seven at one blow.”

Cecilia smiled at the old man. “Do you know the story, Patch? Young Will swatted seven flies that landed on his bread and jam, and he embroidered that belt to celebrate
the deed. But people thought he’d slain
men,
not flies, and took him for a great warrior. Before long, Will was asked to battle dangerous foes—giants, even. And with courage and wit, he turned out to be a brave little tailor indeed. He became a valued adviser to Milo’s father, and then to Milo. It is only in the last few years that he has begun to slip away from us.

“At first these spells of his, this wakeful dreaming, came once in a great while. Then they grew longer and more frequent. Now he is lost to us more often than not. Only on the rarest occasion does he lift his head and speak. But when he does, you realize that he is always listening.” She patted the old man’s hand. “A real hero, as you said. But you’ve been a hero yourself, Patch.”

“Not me.”

“You saved your friend, at the bridge in your little town.”

Patch shook his head. “I didn’t save anyone, Your Highness.”

“You didn’t kill the troll?”

“I guess nobody knows that part of the story,” Patch said wearily. “I killed the troll, all right. But Osbert—my friend, the fellow on the bridge with me—he died anyway. Just an hour later. He was very sick. We buried him on a hill, just outside of the town.” Patch slid off the chair and sat on the floor. There was a poker leaning against the hearth. He used it to prod the logs, sending crackling sparks into the air. “So I didn’t save anyone. I didn’t accomplish anything. That’s why … that’s why I
wanted to help, with the trolls. I wanted to do something right, without something going wrong.”

Cecilia sat beside him on the floor, crossing her legs and smoothing her long dress around them. “Look at me, Patch,” she said.

Patch met her gaze, staring into eyes that were both green and brown, both compassionate and wise. “It seems to me you accomplished much on that bridge,” she said. “You saved Osbert from a far worse fate than the one that took him. You stayed and fought for him, so he knew he was loved. How proud he must have been. What more could someone offer a friend?”

Patch drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. “But I’ve messed things up badly now. You should let me go home, Your Highness. Before anyone else gets killed because of me.”

“You can go home if you want, Patch. But know this: That
was
a good plan you had. You couldn’t have known what would happen, what would go wrong.”

Patch groaned, remembering the awful turn of events that began as the fool was led out of the troll’s cave. Then he sensed something, a quiet thought that until then had been drowned out by his head-splitting despair. “Hold on,” he said. “Isn’t it strange that the trolls would think to have someone taste the wine? And just a day after they killed Constancius and drank all the wine without a second thought? They’re supposed to be stupid creatures. It’s almost as if …”

“As if someone warned them?”

“I know, it doesn’t make sense. Why would anyone do that?” Patch prodded the logs again with the poker. “You know what I think? I think it’s that Hurgoth.”

“Hurgoth?” the queen said, crinkling her nose.

“The leader of the trolls. He’s smarter than the others. You should hear him talk.”

“But is he clever enough to suspect a trap?”

Patch shrugged. “Maybe we were too obvious. Sending another wagon right down the same road. Maybe Hurgoth is that smart. Maybe he’s behind all of this, leading the trolls so far from the Barren Gray. I just wish that we knew more about them—that we could get close to them, spy on them.” He dropped the poker suddenly and clapped his hands to the side of his face.

“What, Patch?”

“Simon!”

“Simon?”

“The fool—the troll’s wine-taster! He was their captive, for a day at least. And he got away somehow when the trolls attacked us. Maybe he heard something, saw something. We have to find him!”

The queen stood. “Stay here and keep my old friend company—perhaps he will speak to you again.” She went to the door and opened it, and the girl who had led Patch to the room stepped inside.

“Emilie, go find the constable, dear. Patch, there is something else I must do now. When the constable
arrives, tell him how he might find this Simon of yours.”

Patch sat in the chair next to Sweeting and gazed at the fire. After a while he called the old man’s name, but there was no response. “The queen says you’re always listening, so let me tell you what I think,” Patch told Sweeting. “You said you heard clues. Well, I’ve been remembering what Griswold told us about the trolls. I have this strange feeling, like the answer is right in front of us, but I just can’t figure it out. It’s all so confusing. The trolls are so strong—why do they stay in the Barren Gray? I always heard they don’t like the sun, but we’ve seen them in the sun. Is it the warmth they hate? No—fire doesn’t hurt them; it only sends them into a rage, so it can’t just be the warmth. And what about the troll that Griswold said started beating itself on the head, then dropped dead? Or the troll that chased the little girl toward the meadow, then turned around and ran, terrified of something? What does it mean? I don’t understand—”

There was a knock on the door, and the constable came into Sweeting’s room. He said loudly, “Hullo there, Will,” and sighed as the old man kept staring at the embers. He turned to Patch. “So young man, I’m told there is someone else to find?”

“His name is Simon, sir. The last time I saw him we were in the middle of the lake,” Patch said. “He’s very tall, and thin, and he’s … well, he’s not like most people….”

The constable tilted his head to one side. “Wild
yellow hair, tongue hanging out of his mouth, wearing about seven shirts, one on top of the other?”

Patch blinked at the constable. “You’ve seen him?”

“Seen him? The madman showed up at the gatehouse right after you. Been telling us to let him inside so he can find his ‘small friend,’ his ‘little hero’—is he talking about you?”

Patch’s head shrank between his shoulders. “I suppose he is.”

“He’s an entertaining fellow, at least till he starts to drive you crazy. Tell you what—I’ll find a place to keep him until Her Majesty calls for you.”

After the constable left, some time went by before the door opened again. Emilie and another servant came in. Emilie signaled for Patch to follow her, while the servant stayed behind with Sweeting.

Patch and Emilie passed quietly through corridors and down staircases, keeping out of sight. At last she opened the door into yet another room, where the queen was waiting. Patch was going to greet her, but what he saw in the room struck him speechless. It was a sewing room of some kind, with tailor’s tools spread out across many a table. There was bolt upon bolt of cloth, in more textures than he’d imagined existed, and a glorious riot of hues that a rainbow would envy, with spool after spool of thread to match.

“Thank you, Emilie, you may go,” the queen said. She
looked at Patch. “We needed a quiet room to speak to your friend. I thought you might appreciate this one.”

“Oh, yes,” Patch said. There was a scrap of lovely gold cloth lying on the floor. He picked it up and rubbed it between his fingers. “I—I just wish my master, John, could see this. He’d think he was in heaven.”

“Choose any color. No, choose three. And I will have them sent to your master.”

“Three! Honestly?”

“Honestly,” she said, smiling.

There was a noise outside, an absurd and familiar voice talking far too loudly. The door opened and the constable appeared, holding Simon by one arm, steering the fool through the threshold. “Oh,
another
delightful room,” he said, gawking. His gaze fell upon Cecilia, and he squinted at her. “And exactly who are you supposed to be? Ouch!”

The constable had pinched Simon’s arm. “That’s the queen, you simpleton!”

Simon’s legs turned to liquid, and the constable had to seize him around the waist to keep him from collapsing. “The queen …,” moaned Simon, swooning. The constable scuttled about to keep the fool upright, and they seemed to be dancing awkwardly together. Patch dragged a chair over and slid it behind Simon’s knees. Simon’s head flopped backward, and when he saw Patch standing behind him, he sprang to his feet and hugged him. Cecilia watched all this with enormous
eyes and a hand held in front of her mouth.

Simon clapped Patch on the back and wept with joy. “It’s you! My dearest, dearest friend in the world! What did you say your name was?”

“It’s Patch, Simon. Now sit down, the queen and I need to talk to you.”

“The queen,” Simon moaned again. His eyes rolled up and he slumped into the chair.

Cecilia took one of Simon’s hands and clasped it between hers. “Welcome, friend,” she said. “I am so glad you came. The king needs your help.” Simon raised his head and looked at the queen. Eyes bulging with awe and mouth stretched wide, he looked like a frog.

“The king needs me?” he said. “The king needs Simon Oddfellow?” His eyebrows rose so high they disappeared under his unruly stack of straw-colored hair.

“Yes, Simon. We all need you. You may be the most important man in the kingdom right now. Patch and I have questions for you. I want you to listen carefully and think about what you learned while you were a prisoner of the trolls. Will you do this for me?”

Patch marveled at the serenity in the queen’s voice. It was like hearing the wind sweep across a field of wheat, or a brook splashing through a stony bed. And while it was Simon that the queen was trying to soothe, Patch felt some of his own anguish melting away. Even the constable, who was clearly worried for the queen’s safety with this odd character in the room, relaxed
enough to take his hand off the hilt of his sword.

Simon straightened up in his chair, put his hands on his knees, and nodded solemnly. The queen looked at Patch, ready for him to begin.

“Simon,” Patch said, taking her place in front of the fool, “when did the trolls capture you?”

Simon scrunched his features together, concentrating. “Why, last night, I’m wandering about, and I find some folk keeping warm around a fire. So I start to entertain them. And suddenly, they scream and run away. So I shout,‘Sorry, I haven’t had a chance to bathe for a while!’ But then there’s this hot breath on the back of my neck, and I’m picked up and stuffed into a sack. Well, I have a merry ride for a while, bouncing all about. Then I’m dumped out, and find myself surrounded by trolls!”

Patch turned to the queen. “So they captured him last night.
After
the plan was made to poison the wine.”

“You must have been frightened,” Cecilia said to the fool.

“Frightened? I was confused! That was the strangest audience I ever had. I drew pictures for them in the dust. They gathered around, and they seemed quite interested, and suddenly one of them hit me so hard I rolled over six times! The same thing happened when I sang my song. One moment they’re laughing and the next,
pow!
They hit me again!”

“You sang for the trolls?” Cecilia asked, smiling.

“Oh, yes,” Simon said, rising from his chair. The constable stiffened and prepared to draw his sword again.
Simon cleared his throat and put the splayed fingers of one hand on his chest. “Would you like to hear it?”

“Simon, I don’t think—,” Patch began, to no effect.