by Terry Brooks
He had proved to be particularly troublesome for Ben.
Not so secretly, Laphroig believed he would be a better King, if given the chance to prove it. He never said so, but he demonstrated it at every turn. He constantly challenged Ben, more so than any other Lord of the Greensward, which necessitated the exercise of a firm hand and sometimes rather more than that. He did not cross the line into open rebellion, but he danced around it constantly. He questioned everything Ben said and did. His attitude was insolent, and his failure to respond to the King’s rule was more deliberate than obtuse. He appeared when it was convenient and stayed away if it wasn’t. He pretended forgetfulness and complained of pressing duties. He was full of excuses and, in Ben’s opinion, full of a lot more than that.
To top it all off, both his looks and actions were strange. Although Ben tried not to think about it, he soon found he could not help himself. It was Abernathy who started it all, announcing after Laphroig’s first visit that he would henceforth refer to him as The Frog. It was a play on Laphroig’s name, but also a reference to his protruding eyes and his distracting habit of flicking his tongue in and out of his lips at odd moments. Abernathy, who had no patience for insolence and lack of courtesy on the part of others when it came to Ben Holiday, did not like Laphroig. In large part, this was because the latter had called him a dog to his face on that first visit and would have gone on doing so if Ben had not put a stop to it. In smaller part, but only marginally, it was because Laphroig was so awful to be around that he invited the rude remarks of others.
Ben didn’t like Laphroig any better than Abernathy or Questor did—the wizard couldn’t tolerate him, either—so he let the nickname stand and soon thought of him in the same terms.
They hadn’t had a visit from Rhyndweir’s Lord for some months, and for a time they had begun to think he might not be coming back. It had been a happy interlude for all of them, but apparently it was over.
“What does he want?” Ben asked, on being informed.
“He won’t say,” Abernathy replied. “He says that his words are for your ears alone.” He held up one hand. “But he was polite about it.”
Ben frowned. “He was?”
“All smiles and goodwill. He kept his tone friendly, he followed all the requisite protocols without complaint, and he never once referred to me using canine terms.”
“That doesn’t sound like Laphroig.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Abernathy cocked his ears. “I would be careful, if I were you.”
Ben nodded. “I’ll make a point of it. Show him into the east room. I’ll do as he asks and speak with him in private.”
When Questor had gone, he departed for the east room, where he held private talks with visiting dignitaries, and prepared himself mentally for what lay ahead. He was not dressed to receive anyone, having not scheduled visits for this day, but he saw no reason to do anything about it since it was only Laphroig. He settled for throwing on a light robe and removing the medallion of office he was wearing from beneath his tunic so that it hung revealed against his breast. The image on its face was of a knight in battle harness mounted on a charger and riding out of a morning sun that rose over a castle on an island.
The castle was Sterling Silver. The knight was the Paladin.
The man who had sold him the Magic Kingdom of Landover, a scheming and manipulative wizard named Meeks, had given him the medallion. Meeks had crossed over into Ben’s world and was engaged in the thriving business of selling the Kingdom over and over again to men who thought they could become its King and were doomed to fail. Ben was chosen to be one of them, but surprised both Meeks and himself by finding a way to overcome obstacles that no other had.
He owed his success, in no small part, to the medallion.
He took a moment to study it. Only the Kings of Landover were allowed to wear the medallion, as it was both the insignia of their office and a talisman allowing them to pass freely between this world and others. It could not be removed by force, only voluntarily. Ben never took it off. Removing it would strip him of his identity and consign him to an exile’s fate. He had discovered that the hard way when Meeks, after giving it to him, had tricked him into thinking he had taken it off in a failed effort to regain control of the Kingdom. After surviving that, Ben had been careful never to let the medallion out of his possession.
But the medallion had a more important use, one that he had discovered almost by accident and literally meant the difference between life and death. It was his link to the Paladin, the King’s champion and protector. While he wore the medallion, he possessed the power to summon the Paladin to defend him against his enemies. This was no small matter in a land where dangers threatened a King at every turn. The Paladin had saved his life countless times since he had assumed the throne. Without the medallion, that would not have happened.
No one but Ben understood the full extent of the medallion’s power. No one else knew the whole of its secret save for Willow, and it had taken him a long time to tell her.
The medallion provided a link between King and Paladin because the one was the alter ego of the other.
Ben Holiday was the Paladin.
When he summoned his champion, it materialized out of nowhere, a ghost come out of the ether. It rode a battle horse and it was fully armored and armed and ready for combat. It defended Ben, but in doing so it took him inside and made him a part of itself. It did so because the strength of the King determined the strength of the knight.
But there was more. The Paladin carried with it the memories of all the battles it had ever fought for all the Kings of Landover who had ever been. Those memories were harsh and raw and painted with blood and death. They surfaced instantly when it was joined to Ben. They transformed his character in the bargain, infusing him with a bloodlust that was all-consuming He became the warrior that had survived every struggle it had ever engaged in. Everything else was forgotten; all that mattered was winning the battle, whatever the cost. The battle became everything.
And while he was the Paladin and while he fought, he wanted nothing more than what he had at that moment—a fight to the death.
Afterward, he was always shaken at how completely he had been overwhelmed by the primal emotions of the struggle. While he fought as the Paladin, he loved how those emotions made him feel, how alive he became. But he was left drained and terrified afterward, and he always hoped he would never have to make the change again.
Because, secretly, he was afraid that one day he would not be able to change back again.
Even now, after all these years, he struggled with this dark secret. He could tell no one, although the weight of it was enormous. It was his alone to bear, for all the years of life that remained to him. It repulsed him, but at the same time he remembered how the transformation would feel when it happened again. The mix of the two was troubling, and though he continued to try he had not yet found a way to come to terms with it.
He was in the midst of pondering this when a knock sounded on the chamber door, and before he could respond the heavy portal swung open to admit Laphroig of Rhyndweir.
Ben started to get to his feet and abruptly sat down again, staring in disbelief.
Laphroig always dressed in black. Always. Ben had assumed the affectation had to do with either the impression he was trying to make on others or the one he had of himself. Today, though, Laphroig wore white so dazzling that on anyone else it might have suggested the angelic. White ribbons and bits of lace decorated his cuffs and shoulders and elbows, a sash wrapped twice around his waist, and a white cloak draped his slender form and hung just inches from the floor.
And a broad-brimmed hat, too. With a feather in it!
Laphroig wasn’t a big man to start with. Indeed, he was smallish and slender, his features sharp and his black hair spiky. There was a sly and cunning look to him and a ferret’s quickness to his movements. But dressed as he was today, all in white, he reminded Ben of an egret.
What in the h
eck, Ben asked himself, is going on?
The Lord of Rhyndweir approached with something between a mince and a bounce, removed his feathered hat with a flourish, and bowed deeply. “High Lord, I am your humble servant.”
That’ll be the day, Ben thought.
“Lord Laphroig,” he replied, almost saying Lord Frog, only just managing to keep from doing so. He gestured to the chair on his right. “Please sit down.”
Laphroig swept his cape out behind him and settled himself comfortably. Ben couldn’t stop staring. The thought crossed his mind that aliens might have taken Laphroig over and caused him to don the outlandish outfit. But otherwise he looked the same: eyes protruding, tongue flicking out, spiky black hair sticking straight up …
Ben blinked. Those inky, depthless eyes: There was a glint of cunning there, a look both cold and calculating. He remembered Abernathy’s words of caution and banished his incredulity and bemusement. It was not a good idea to consider Laphroig as harmless. “What brings you to Sterling Silver?” he asked, smiling as if everything were normal.
“A matter of utmost importance, High Lord,” Laphroig replied, his face suddenly serious. Then he smiled. “I see you are surprised by my dress. Not the usual black. That is because of what brings me here. Black does not suit the subject of my visit. White is more appropriate, and I decided to honor my purpose by dressing accordingly.”
Ben nodded, wondering where this was going.
“I realize I should have sent a messenger requesting an audience, but I couldn’t bear the attendant wait, High Lord. Once my mind was made up, there was nothing for it but to come straight here and hope that you would agree to see me. You have not disappointed me; I am most appreciative.”
So, Ben thought. Aliens have taken him over. The Laphroig we know and hate has been replaced by something unrecognizable. He caught himself. Well, maybe. Maybe not.
“What matter is it that brings you to us, Lord of Rhyndweir?” he asked.
Laphroig straightened noticeably, as if bracing himself. “High Lord, I know I have not been the best of neighbors in the past. I know I have been difficult at times, even rude. I attribute this to my youth and my inexperience, and I hope you have found it in your heart to forgive me.”
Ben shrugged. “There is nothing to forgive.”
“You are entirely too kind, High Lord. But I know differently, and I offer my apologies for all offenses given. I wish to start anew with our relationship, which I expect to be a long and productive one.”
Ben smiled and nodded. What is he up to?
“I also intend to be a better friend to the members of your court, starting with Questor Thews and Abernathy, to whom I have been less than kind at times. That is all in the past now and will not happen again.”
His tongue flicked out as he gathered himself. “High Lord, I have come to ask you for the hand of your daughter, Mistaya, in marriage.”
Whatever Ben Holiday might have thought he was ready for, it certainly wasn’t this. He was so shocked that for a moment he just stared at the other man. “You want to marry Mistaya?” he said finally.
Laphroig nodded enthusiastically. “I do. It will be a satisfactory match for both of us, I think.”
Ben leaned forward. “But she’s fifteen.”
Laphroig nodded. “Older than I would have liked, but still young enough to teach. We will be a good match: she an eager helper and dutiful wife and I, a strong protector and devoted husband. She is young enough to bear me many children, some of whom, I fully expect, will be sons who will succeed me. She has a pleasing face and temperament to match. She is clever, but not too much so. She is the woman I have always hoped to find.”
Ben stared some more. “Am I missing something here? Don’t you already have a wife? And a son and heir, for that matter?”
Laphroig looked suddenly sad. “Apparently you haven’t heard, High Lord. News doesn’t always travel as fast as we might think. My son caught a fever and died not twenty days ago. His mother, in her grief, killed herself. I am left with neither spouse nor heir, and while I would like the period of mourning to go on longer than it has, duty dictates that I act in the best interest of my subjects. That means taking a new wife and producing an heir as quickly as possible.” He paused, shaking his head. “Even in my grief, I thought at once of Mistaya.”
So that was it. Suddenly Ben wanted to wring his visitor’s scrawny neck. He could do it, right here in the reception room, and no one would know. Even if Questor or Abernathy guessed at the truth of things, they would never say a word. The impulse was so overwhelming that he found he was clenching his fists in anticipation. He forced himself to relax and sit back.
“Your dedication to your duties is commendable,” he said, trying to decide how to put an end to this.
“Mistaya, I understand, has just returned from her schooling in what was once your old world, High Lord.” Laphroig smiled, his tongue flicking out. “I gather she does not intend to go back, but to remain here in Landover. That makes it all the easier for a wedding to be arranged. It is a suitable match, don’t you agree?”
Ben knew enough not to tell the other what he really thought. He also understood how marriage protocols worked where the Lords of the Greensward were concerned. Taking wives to produce heirs was standard practice. Young wives were favored to allow for maximum production. Marriages were arranged between the ruling families all the time. Such unions created alliances and strengthened friendships with allies. Nothing that Laphroig had suggested was out of line with common practice.
On the other hand, it was entirely out of the question. Ben and Willow’s opinions aside, Mistaya would run screaming into the night if the suggestion were even broached; she hated Laphroig, who was always patting her arm or trying to kiss her cheek. Given the opportunity and the least bit of encouragement, she would have turned him into a real frog But Ben had cautioned her against doing anything overt, pointing out that he had to live and work with people like Laphroig, and there was nothing to be gained by making it harder than it already was.
He half wished now that he had let her have her way.
“My Lord, this is a matter that will require some thought and discussion,” he said finally. “The Queen must be advised of your intentions. Also … um, Mistaya must be told.”
“Of course, of course,” Laphroig agreed at once. “She must be courted, as well. I must win her heart. It was never my intention to ask that she simply be given to me. She must agree to the match, too.”
Ben felt a little of the tension drain out of him. If Mistaya must agree, it would be the Twelfth of Never before any marriage happened. “I am pleased you are taking this approach.”
Laphroig stood, bowed deeply, his feathered hat sweeping down, and straightened anew. “I shall return home to await your word. But I do want to emphasize that I hope to begin courting the Princess as soon as you have had a chance to consider and accept my proposal. As I said, I do feel some urgency in this matter, and I do feel I have a duty to my people.”
“I understand,” Ben advised, rising with him. “You shall hear from me again very shortly.”
He watched Laphroig bounce out of the room, wondering how in the world he was going to handle this.
MISUNDERSTANDINGS
Some distance away from the castle, although not so far that she could not see its silver gleam against the green backdrop of the surrounding forests, Mistaya sat talking with Poggwydd about proper behavior. It was a discussion that was taking considerable time and effort, and they had been at it for several hours now. That these two citizens of Landover should be engaged in a discourse on this particular subject was of itself rather strange, and the irony of it would not have been lost on Ben Holiday had he been present to witness it. No doubt he would have had something to say to his daughter about the pot calling the kettle black or how people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.
Willow, on the other hand, would have pointed out that sometimes people worked throu
gh their own problems by trying to help others with theirs, and that this could be particularly effective when the nature of those problems was so similar.
“If you want to be accepted by others, you have to be considerate of their feelings,” the pot was saying to the kettle.
Poggwydd frowned. “No one is considerate of us. No one wants anything to do with us. G’home Gnomes are friendless outcasts in a friendless world.”
“Yes, but there are reasons for this, as I have been saying,” Mistaya explained patiently. “For instance, taking things that don’t belong to you is not a good way to endear yourself.”
Poggwydd bristled. “G’home Gnomes are not thieves, Princess. We are finders of lost items, with which we then barter or trade. It is a time-honored profession, and one in which our people have been engaged for centuries. Just because we are not skilled craftsmen or clever artisans does not mean we deserve to be treated badly.”
Mistaya sighed. They were covering familiar ground without making much progress. “Poggwydd, you do not find ‘lost items’ in other people’s storerooms and closets. You do not find them in their sheds and huts. You do not find them in their kitchen cabinets and pantries, some of which are bolted and locked.”
Poggwydd screwed up his monkeyish face and grimaced. “Those are harsh words. Unpleasant accusations.” He thought about it a moment and suddenly brightened. “Where is your proof?”
