The Brave Apprentice (17 page)

“Forget this, Giles,” Milo shouted. “The knights won’t stand for it. The people won’t stand for it. Wearing the crown won’t make you king.”

“You are right about that.” Giles swept his arm toward the line of trolls. “Intimidation will make me king. So, Milo—do you accept my terms? The alternative is a brutal death for everyone inside those walls. I’m asking a small price, don’t you think? Just you and a peasant boy?”

Milo’s face turned purple, and he was about to shout back when Addison grasped his arm and whispered in his ear. Milo thought for a moment, nodded brusquely, and turned to address Giles once more.

“We will take some time to consider what you have said,” he called out. Patch noticed the king’s eye twitching.

Giles laughed. “Taking counsel from my brother? Such a cool-headed, steady fellow that Goran is. Let me guess—he advised you to buy some time, so you might better plan your defenses. Fine with me, if you want to play games. But there will be no escape for any of you in the meantime.” He turned to the trolls and pointed right and left. A small group of the monsters stayed with Giles, but the rest began to move off, spreading out along the walls and vanishing into the fog.

“And one more thing,” Giles called loudly to the men lining the wall. “You soldiers, you servants, you lesser knights. I’m sure some of you are secretly grateful that a new king will take the place of this spineless worm. Milo the Mild! I know you call him that when his back is turned. You’ll welcome a king who doesn’t spend so much time worrying about ‘the poor folk.’ A king who dreams of bigger things and a bigger kingdom. A king who knows how to reward the people who matter—those who protect the throne and fight for its glory.

“Remember this: If Milo hesitates to surrender himself and Dartham, you may want to give him a nudge in the right direction—if you understand my meaning. I will remember those who stand with me.”

“Go to the devil, Giles Addison!” shouted an anonymous soldier near the far end of the wall.

Giles smiled. “And I will surely remember those who stand against me.”

pushed the door of the chapel open and looked inside. Nobody seemed to be there, except for the cold body of Will Sweeting, laid out on a table near the altar. Patch stepped inside and pushed the door shut behind him. It closed as silently as it had opened.

He glanced around the room, its walls paneled with wood, lovely colored glass in the windows, and a high ceiling that rose to a point overhead. With a heavy heart, he walked between the rows of benches to where Sweeting lay and looked down at the old man. Sweeting’s breath had been so weak, so shallow near the end. Patch supposed it had slowed and slowed until it finally just stopped, like a clock winding down. He was reminded of seeing his friend Osbert after he died.

A lock of gray hair lay across Sweeting’s face. Patch brushed it to the side and smoothed it. “Will Sweeting. I wish we could talk one last time. I know the answer is there. I’ve thought about it, but I just can’t figure it out.”

“Do you know what I can’t figure out?” A deep voice boomed out behind Patch. Startled, he spun around and fell backward against Sweeting’s body. It was Mannon; he had been lying down on one of the benches, hidden between the tall backs until he sat up. Mannon leaned forward and looked at Patch from under those heavy black eyebrows. “Why you’re still here. Wait—don’t tell me, I can guess. You’re waiting for a reward from the king. Like old Will Sweeting there earned. You’re hoping to do something heroic, so Milo will grant you some scrap of land or a barony. Or a little sack of gold at the very least, eh?”

Patch felt his face grow warm and turned away from Mannon.
Is that the truth?
he wondered. In the back of his mind, had he expected that all this would eventually mean a gift from the king, some wealth or a title?

“Of course that’s it.” Mannon leaned back on the bench. “Well, apprentice, that man behind you was a giant killer. He actually solved problems. And that’s the difference between you and him. It seems to me that every time you get an idea, it
creates
a problem. First Gosling dies. And now, though you’ve exposed the mastermind of this plan, you made Giles so furious that all of us in this castle may be dead soon. Humph.”

Mannon hawked up something from the back of his throat and turned as if to spit. Then he realized where he was and swallowed it back down, grimacing. “Seems to me that if you’ve earned anything, it’s a whipping. So
here’s an idea. Why don’t you sneak away and go back to your worthless old master in your insignificant village? You’re good at running, right?”

Addison’s voice came from the far end of the room, by the door. “That is enough, Mannon.” Mannon turned to argue but snapped his mouth shut when he saw Milo beside Addison. He shot a poisonous sideways look at Patch as he rose to his feet.

“Enough indeed,” Milo said. “Don’t blame the apprentice for our predicament. If you need to blame someone, you can blame me.”

Mannon lowered his head. “Blame you? Never, my king.”

“Oh, but this is all my doing.” Milo sat down on one of the center benches and stared out through the colored glass in the windows. “Who do you think sent Giles to explore the Barren Gray to begin with? I knew he was dangerous, that he had his eyes on the throne. And my queen, for that matter. I thought it would be better to remove him from the things he coveted so badly.” Milo smiled sadly at Patch. “And then I heard the story of a tailor’s apprentice, slaying a troll on the bridge in Crossfield, and I had the sudden inspiration: Send Giles off to the Barren Gray! To map the land and investigate the threat of the trolls!”

Patch suddenly felt unsteady on his feet, listening to the king.
He got the idea from me? All this is because of me?

Addison had one eyebrow lifted in a rare expression
of surprise. “So you sent Giles on a dangerous expedition. Hoping the trolls would solve the problem for you.”

The king winced. “Mainly I wanted him out of the way for a while. But I admit: The thought occurred to me that if Giles somehow didn’t make it back … it might be the best outcome for all concerned. Addison, I must apologize. I know this is your brother we’re talking about.”

Addison shook his head. “I need no apology, Your Highness. Giles has proved your point—he is every bit as ambitious and wicked as you supposed. And as for our predicament, you could not have guessed that Giles would somehow learn to command the trolls. Who could have?”

“No one. But here they are. And Giles knows what I was up to. So his incentive is doubled now. He’s here for the throne and revenge … Patch, my boy, are you all right?”

Patch had slumped to the floor, his chin resting on his knees and his hands folded over his head. “It’s all because of me, Your Majesty,” he said. “None of this would have happened if Osbert and I had gone to the other bridge. Or if I hadn’t fought the troll. You’d never have gotten the idea. I started everything.”

“So you did,” Mannon muttered. “Tell us, apprentice, were there ill omens the day you were born? Did a shadow cross the moon, or was a calf born with two heads?”

“Enough, Mannon!” Milo snapped. “Leave us!” Mannon stormed down the aisle and slammed the chapel door behind him.

Milo walked over to Patch. “Don’t give it another thought, lad. I for one am glad we met. You do remind me of this old, old friend of mine.” The king reached out and touched Will Sweeting’s clasped hands;“Good-bye, Will. I had already begun to miss you, even before you were gone. There won’t be time for a proper burial; I hope you’ll forgive us that.” Milo kissed Will’s cold forehead and left the chapel.

Patch shut his eyes and stayed on the floor with his hands over his head. His heart felt weak and his brain felt numb. He heard a noise beside him and opened his eyes to see Addison sitting there, leaning on one hand and looking steadily at him with those dark eyes. There was a softness in his expression that Patch had not seen before, as if his features were ice under the first rays of sun.

“Patch, what do you think about our king?” Addison asked.

Patch took his hands off his head and folded them in his lap. He considered the question for a long moment. “I like him, Lord Addison. I think he’s a decent man.”

“Decent. That’s the very word. I like him too, Patch. I’m glad he’s our king. You can talk to him like any other man. He’s actually an ordinary fellow. And that makes him almost extraordinary.

“You see, Patch, becoming a monarch usually does something to a person. A regular man can have a simple, harmless fault. But make him a king, and that fault grows wider and deeper, and it becomes a vast, gaping
flaw that brings suffering and ruin to all his people.

“A greedy man is just a nuisance, like that innkeeper Bernard; but a greedy king gathers all the wealth for himself while his people go hungry. A violent man brawls with his neighbors until someone throws him in jail; but a violent king wages unjust wars, even against his own people. A suspicious man doubts his brothers and mutters against strangers; but a suspicious king sends even his loyal friends to the gallows. Do you wonder why I’m telling you this?”

“You want me to know why your brother must not become king.”

“Yes. It’s more important than you can imagine. Giles Addison is all those things. He is greedy, violent, and suspicious. Worse yet, he has a wounded heart, which a man like Giles cannot abide. You see, he was spurned by Cecilia three years ago, when she chose to marry Milo. Of course, she disappointed many a man that day,” Addison said. He scratched at the corner of his eye and paused for a while before speaking again. “When I heard that Giles was dead, killed by the trolls, I mourned like any brother. But inwardly I was relieved. I thought we had averted a crisis. Instead we created one far worse. Giles absolutely must
not
become king. But at the moment I can’t think of any way to stop him.”

Addison leaned back against the leg of the table. “Of course, I have flaws of my own. Arrogance, for one. An overabundance of reserve. And others I’m sure you
could point out.” A little breath puffed out of Addison’s nostrils; it was the closest he’d come to a laugh. “I have not treated you well, Patch. I should have recognized your talent. Because Milo was right about one thing—you are clever. So if you have any more ideas, I should like to hear them.”

Patch shook his head. “I don’t know, my lord. I keep wondering how your brother is getting those monsters to do his will. I believe he discovered something about the trolls, something they don’t want anyone to know. I said that to Giles, and you should have seen the look he gave me. It made me sure that I was right.”

Addison nodded. “It was probably the same look he would give our father when we were boys and my father confronted Giles with the truth.”

“Will Sweeting said we should ask ourselves why the trolls have never come before. And he was right—if they are so invincible, why have they stayed in the Barren Gray? There must be something that keeps them away.”

Patch reminded Addison about the things that Griswold had told them, the things that felt like clues ready to piece together. Addison listened with his brow wrinkled, then shrugged. “I don’t know what it might be, Patch. But keep thinking. We don’t have much time.” He stood and tugged at his garments to smooth them. “It is amazing to me that the life of a simple apprentice has become so intertwined with the fate of our kingdom. Perhaps you are meant to solve this puzzle.”

Or maybe I was meant to bring disaster down on us all,
Patch thought,
like the first rolling stone that triggers a landslide.
They remained there for a while, Patch trying to push that notion out of his head and Addison lost in his own thoughts, until men began shouting outside in the courtyard. The nobleman lifted his head. “What now?” he asked wearily. Patch followed him out of the chapel.

The courtyard was crowded with the refugees from the village, but it was easy to find the source of the noise. Near the gatehouse a group of men stood in a circle, surrounding Mannon and a soldier whom Patch did not recognize. The fight was over by the time Patch got there. Mannon stood over the other man, putting his boot on the wrist that held the sword and bringing his own blade to the soldier’s neck.