Chronicles of the Red King #3: Leopards' Gold

by Jenny Nimmo

  “I don’t know where he came from,” said Petrello, looking at the boy. “But …”

  The king shook his head. “I don’t mean that. I know where Charlie came from; we meet often. But it has only ever been us two.”

  “Often?” said Petrello in a small, surprised voice. “But who is he?”

  The boy was looking from the king to Petrello, with a big smile on his face.

  “He is my descendant,” the king told Petrello. And then he began to speak in the boy’s unknown and mysterious language. The boy nodded and grinned at Petrello, before answering the king in long, excited sentences.

  “What is he saying? Why is he here?” Petrello could hardly contain himself.

  “It would take a very long time for me to explain it all,” said his father. “Charlie lives nine hundred years ahead of us, in another era. He speaks our language but it has changed considerably over the centuries. He is of my blood and through all those long years a small part of the realm of enchantments has reached some of my descendants. Charlie has been gifted with the ability to travel through images. He can touch one and travel.”

  “Is the bird still there, so many centuries ahead? Don’t things fade and crumble?”

  Petrello glanced at the bird with its dusting of snake silver.

  The king smiled. “Not these frescoes, it seems. Our spirit ancestors have a power beyond our comprehension. They made these” — he nodded at the painted walls — “so perhaps they will last forever.”

  “I touched the bird, and then Charlie’s finger,” Petrello said, still bewildered by what had happened.

  The boy’s expression had changed. He was staring at Petrello with interest and amusement. He spoke again to the king, and the king, looking at Petrello, said, “Well, well! How extraordinary.”

  “What?” asked Petrello.

  “Charlie tells me that you remind him of a great friend of his. He can’t explain why, for this boy doesn’t have your dark skin and black hair. His eyes are wide and blue, and his hair the color of corn.”

  “And his name?” asked Petrello.

  Charlie seemed to understand this. “Tancred,” he said, adding several more incomprehensible words.

  “And is he … ?” Petrello suddenly felt as though he was about to learn something vital, something that would bring him closer to understanding himself. “Does Tancred have a gift?”

  “Yes, he is another of my descendants. He can bring thunderstorms, just as I can.”

  “I see.” Petrello regarded his hands, flexed his fingers, hunched his shoulders.

  The king looked concerned. “Petrello, it doesn’t mean that you will be able to do this.”

  “All the same,” Petrello said cheerfully. “It’s interesting.” He gazed at his hands, as though they might give him another clue. When he looked up, Charlie had gone.

  “He often goes like that,” said the king. “He seldom has time to say good-bye.”

  “But why?” Petrello stared at the space their visitor had occupied only a moment before.

  “He can be interrupted by a friend, or his parents, and then the link is broken, and he is whisked away.” The king looked up at the red sky as if Charlie had ascended into the air. “He is a good, honest, and cheerful person, and his accounts of life nine hundred years in the future contain much comfort.”

  Petrello realized his stomach was growling. “Thank you for allowing me to meet your descendant,” he said.

  “It was your aunt’s doing.” The king smiled. “You should be at supper, my son. I can hear your hunger. And, Petrello, I would like Charlie to remain our secret for now.”

  “I promise not to speak of him with anyone else, Father.”

  When Petrello stepped out of the Royal Tower, the guard gave him an odd look, but said nothing. Zobayda had left her seat and taken the wooden camel into her apartments. Night clouds from the north were beginning to drift into the rosy sky, and a chilly breeze had blown up.

  Feeling inexplicably cheerful, Petrello strode into the second courtyard, only to find it deserted. The chaos from Olga’s furious assault had been carefully tidied, and a subdued mutter came from the workers’ dining hall.

  Petrello was afraid he had missed his supper. The loud calls from his empty stomach were increasing every second. He ran through the next courtyard and furtively opened the door into the Children’s Dining Hall.

  Nurse Ogle was busy wiping the youngest child’s face. Petrello hunched down and climbed over the bench into the empty space beside Tolly. A bowl of cold soup was waiting for him.

  “Where’ve you been?” Tolly muttered as Petrello gulped down the soup.

  “Tell you later,” said Petrello, before remembering the promise he’d made to the king. He had experienced something astonishing and unbelievable, and yet he must keep it a secret. It would be hard.

  “The bread’s all gone, but I saved you some.” Tolly took a soggy roll from his lap and put it beside Petrello’s bowl.

  “Thanks.” Petrello glanced at his brother. Tolly’s eyelids were red and swollen. He’d been crying.

  “What’s the matter, Tolly? Last time I saw you, you were playing Blagard.”

  Tolly dropped his head. He toyed with his spoon for a moment before whispering, “My back itched. It got so bad I couldn’t play anymore.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Petrello.

  “So I went to find Guan,” Tolly went on. “And she … and she …”

  “She what?”

  “She took me to the wizards for some salve.”

  “And is your back better now?” Petrello peered into his brother’s unhappy face.

  Tolly shook his head and a tear dropped into his bowl.

  “It takes a while for Llyr’s salves to work,” said Petrello. “I know because of when I bruised my knee.”

  “Nothing will work,” Tolly broke in. “We were on the steps to the aerie. The pain was so bad. It was really, really bad, Trello.” Tolly looked across the table at Guanhamara sitting opposite them.

  Guanhamara smiled encouragingly. She mouthed the words, “Don’t worry. It will be all right.”

  “What does she mean?” Petrello asked his brother.

  Tolly shook his head. More tears fell. Children were looking at him. Tolly suddenly twisted around, swung his legs over the bench, and ran out.

  “Tolomeo, you have not had permission,” shouted Nurse Ogle.

  “He’s not well, Nurse,” said Guanhamara.

  “What’s it to do with you?” snapped the long-faced woman.

  Petrello wanted to race after his brother but he was afraid he’d make the situation worse.

  “No cheese for him tomorrow,” grunted Nurse Ogle. “Take your bowls to the pump, children. Petrello, take your brother’s.”

  Petrello quickly gathered the bowls and ran to wash them at the pump. A line had formed and Guanhamara was at the end of it.

  “What’s wrong with Tolly?” Petrello asked his sister.

  “I can’t tell you here,” she said. “Let him show you.”

  “Show me?” Petrello was mystified.

  “Poor Tolly.”

  Guanhamara looked so solemn, Petrello began to imagine the worst. “Has the plague come?” he asked. “Or some other horrible affliction? He had lumps on his back.”

  “Sssssh!” His sister looked around but no one appeared to have heard them. There was always a lot of howling, squealing, and laughter at the pump, as children tried to splash one another.

  “He’ll be in the bedchamber,” said Guanhamara as they put their clean, wet bowls back on the table. “I’ll come with you.”

  They found Tolly lying on his stomach, his face turned to the wall. He’d taken off his jerkin and his loose, white shirt was bunched over his shoulder blades. Petrello sat on the edge of his brother’s bed. He looked at Guanhamara, who stood by the door.

  “Does it still hurt?” Petrello asked his brother.

  “The pain is going,” Tolly mumbled, “and now I
’m a freak.”

  “You’re not,” Petrello said firmly.

  Tolly turned his head and, muffling his voice in the pillow, he said, “Look!”

  Petrello lifted his brother’s shirt above his shoulder blades. In the fading daylight, he saw quite clearly that the small bony lumps he’d glimpsed in the moonlight were now covered in glossy black feathers.

  “I’m a freak,” Tolly sobbed. “Trello, I’m a freak, aren’t I?”

  “No,” Petrello said fiercely. “You have wings, Tolly,” and in a tone of wonder, he added, “They’ll grow and you’ll be able to fly.”

  “I don’t want to,” Tolly cried. He sat up and, throwing an arm over his shoulder, tried to reach the offending wings, as though he wanted to tear them out. “The jinni’s tricked me. You’ve all been gifted in wonderful, secret ways.” He stared at his sister. “But everyone can see what I am. They’ll laugh. Father can fly, but he doesn’t have wings. Why has this happened to me?”

  “Tolly, I don’t have any gift at all,” said Petrello.

  “Lucky you,” Tolly muttered.

  At that moment, Vyborn came in. At least half of Vyborn. He’d managed almost to become a dragon. The scales were there, and the crest on his head, and there was a bit of a tail and one wing. But only one half of his face was a dragon’s, and only one arm and one leg, so he was all lopsided. If anyone looked a freak, it was Vyborn.

  Guanhamara tried not to giggle, but it was impossible. Holding back for a second made it worse. When she finally gave in, her high-pitched squeals made Petrello fall to the ground with laughter, and then even Tolly began to giggle.

  “Stop it!” screeched Vyborn. “Stop it! Stop it! Why can’t I be a dragon?”

  “Because you can’t remember what Eri’s dragon looks like,” said Guanhamara through her giggles, “and you’ve no imagination.” Holding her hand over her mouth, she ran into the passage, trying to stifle the laughter that kept bubbling out.

  Vyborn stomped over to his bed and sat on the edge, a dejected, ridiculous half dragon. Slowly, he assumed his whole human form. “What a day,” he remarked, and flung himself facedown on the bed.

  Petrello and Tolly grinned at each other, and Petrello said, “It’s going to be all right. Believe me.”

  “At least it doesn’t hurt anymore,” said Tolly.

  They glanced at Vyborn, wondering if he’d heard, but their small brother had already begun to snore. The effort of trying to be a dragon had worn him out.

  Later that night, Petrello woke up. In spite of the extraordinary events of the day, he hadn’t found it difficult to fall asleep. It was the dream that woke him; a dream of feathers. He thought of the cloak that Wyngate always wore — a long cloak of glossy ravens’ feathers. If the king could copy it for Tolly, his wings would become part of a long, feathered cloak, and no one would guess the truth.

  “Yes,” Petrello said drowsily. “A cloak of feathers.”

  While the rest of the castle’s occupants were in their beds, the king was getting ready to work. He had many helmets to make, one more precious than the rest. He chose the armory for his task, and the wizard Llyr to help him.

  The king sat behind a square table at the back of the room. On either side of him, candles flickered in tall, three-branched candelabra. Another candelabrum had been placed on a shelf above him. In the center of the table, the eagle helmet gleamed and twinkled, giving no hint of its deadly past.

  Llyr had put bowls of smoldering incense before the two doors and on the sill. Pungent smoke drifted around the suits of armor, giving the impression of an army drowning in fog.

  “Let us begin,” said the king.

  Llyr picked up a large sack and came to stand beside him. The king drew the eagle helmet toward him; he folded his arms about it, closed his eyes, and bent his head so that his slim crown touched the golden eagle at the top of the helmet.

  In the language of the secret kingdom, a language that Llyr could barely understand, the king spoke to his spirit ancestors. A moment passed; the king lifted his head and pushed the eagle helmet away from him. And there, before him on the table, sat a second helmet, identical to the first in every detail.

  “Tomorrow, early, I want you to take the old one to the smiths.” King Timoken nodded at the object of Lilith’s awful spell. “Tell them to melt it down, burn the poison out of it, and watch them do it, Llyr.”

  “I will.” Llyr scooped the helmet into his sack.

  “We will do the same with all the others,” said the king. “We don’t know if Lilith has tampered with them. But first let’s take this to Amadis.”

  Leaving the sack by the door, Llyr picked up his staff and they stepped out into the courtyard, where a black horse stood, quiet and patient, with the wolf Greyfleet beside him. Already mounted, Amadis wore his chain mail beneath a padded yellow tunic. The tunic was decorated with a wolf and an eagle in red and gold thread. The wolf and the eagle appeared again on the shield that hung from his saddle. His head was bare and his thick hair looked white gold in the moonlight.

  “You’re still determined to do this tonight, Amadis?” asked the king. “In another day we could ride out together.”

  “I must leave now, Father,” Amadis replied solemnly. “I have harmed my sister and until I have redeemed myself, I cannot think of returning.”

  “Amadis, she would have harmed you,” said Llyr.

  “Nevertheless!” Amadis gave the wizard a rueful smile.

  “But alone?” said Llyr.

  “I shall not be alone.” Amadis glanced down at Greyfleet, and almost as a reminder, there came a cry from an eagle circling above him. “They are my ears and eyes,” he said.

  The king handed his son the newly made helmet, saying, “The only magic in this is for your protection.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  When Amadis had put on the helmet, he turned his horse toward the South Gate. Llyr strode before him and, at a light touch from his staff, the tall doors swung open.

  Amadis rode out of the castle with Greyfleet keeping pace beside the horse. As Llyr and the king watched them enter the forest, seven dark forms rose out of the grass at the edge of the trees. Greyfleet’s brothers. The wolves followed horse and rider into the shadows, and soon the only creature to be seen was a night owl, perched in a high branch, calling advice to the prince who could understand him.

  Friar Gereint’s teeth had been giving him trouble for some time. Next morning, when angry roars from the courtyard began to disturb his lesson, the friar’s toothache became unbearable. Eventually, his head sank onto his chest and, waving his hand at the children, he muttered, “Class dismissed. Leave! Leave! I must be alone with my teeth!”

  “Go and see the wizards, Friar Gereint,” Guanhamara suggested. “They’re good at extractions.”

  “Mmmmmmm!” moaned the friar. “How shall I eat without teeth?”

  Guanhamara had no answer for this. She quickly left the classroom and joined her brothers outside. They were rather enjoying the spectacle of Borlath in a rage. Roaring and spitting oaths, he stormed about in angry circles while small tongues of flame flared from his fingertips. Everyone who had to pass him gave a little leap of fright or surprise, especially the ladies who feared for their fine silk dresses.

  The king appeared from the sanatorium, where he’d been checking on Gunfrid’s progress. Borlath charged toward him.

  “Amadis has gone!” roared Borlath. “Why wasn’t I told?”

  “Why should you be told?” said the king. “Your brother made his decision late last night.”

  “We were to leave together. All of us. It’s not right for Amadis to be alone.”

  “He is not alone,” said the king. “And well you know it.”

  “Eagles and wolves,” Borlath muttered as he marched off. “Otters and hares, ducks and geese, voles and sparrows. I’d rather have an army.”

  The children looked at one another. Guanhamara raised her eyebrows and said, “Amadis gone? I
wonder why?”

  Petrello shrugged. He felt uneasy. Beside him, Tolly rubbed his shoulder and whispered, “When shall I ask about the cloak?”

  “Now,” said Petrello when he saw Borlath striding into the second courtyard.

  As their father walked toward the aerie, the children ran to catch up with him.

  “Father,” cried Tolly. “May I speak with you?”

  The king turned. “What’s the trouble, Tolomeo?”

  Tolly, glancing at the passing courtiers, said in a low voice, “I have a problem that is secret — and personal.”

  The king frowned. “Come into the cloisters.”

  They followed their father into the covered walkway that ran beside the wall. The king continued on his way to the wizards’ tower, but slowed his pace as Tolly began to talk. Petrello and his sister, walking behind, could hardly hear Tolly’s hushed voice as he described the tiny wings that had sprouted from his shoulder blades. And then Tolly’s voice rose suddenly and a shuddering sigh escaped him. “I can’t bear it that people will see my wings and think I’m different, peculiar, not normal. I’m a freak, Father, aren’t I?”

  The king stopped. He turned to Tolly and, putting a hand on his shoulder, said, “You are not a freak, Tolomeo. You have wings, and soon you will be able to fly. We shall fly together, you and I. Imagine how wonderful that will be.”

  Tolly stared at his father and a slow smile began to light his face. But the king’s words had a different effect on Petrello. They made him feel inexplicably lonely. How amazing it would be to fly with his father.

  “Trello said that if I had a cloak made of feathers, like Wyngate’s, people wouldn’t notice my wings,” Tolly said earnestly. “Not while they’re growing, anyway.”

  “I see,” said the king. “People’s stares will make you feel uncomfortable.”

  “And they will stare, won’t they, Father?” Guanhamara put in.

  “For a while, yes,” the king agreed. “Let us pay a visit to Wyngate; the library is on our way.”

  Wyngate was at his usual table, books, maps, and pages spread before him. But when the king and his children entered the library, they found the book guardian on his hands and knees before the entrance. He immediately became very flustered and got to his feet, holding a large book, some of whose pages lay scattered on the floor.