The Prophecy

by Hilari Bell

  “EXCUSE ME?”

  The tavern maid bustled past without even a glance at the dusty stable lad. The tavern in Williten was full of customers, all demanding service, but still…Prince Perryndon would have commanded instant attention at any inn. But he wasn’t Prince Perryndon now, Perryn reminded himself, and that was a good thing.

  “Excuse me, but I’d…” She was gone. Perryn sighed and slumped back against the wall, remembering the long day behind him.

  The bard had gone through Bramlin, a sleepy stable boy had remembered for free and been persuaded for a copper to swap clothing and forget that he had ever seen his prince. Once he assumed his disguise, Perryn felt safer asking other people about the bard, but no one in Bramlin seemed to know where he had gone next. The two nearest towns were Durnst and Fair Meadows. With no idea what the bard’s intentions were, Perryn had guessed Durnst. It took him several hours to walk there, only to find that the bard hadn’t gone to Durnst after all. Then it took several more hours to retrace his steps and take the crossroad to Fair Meadows.

  The name had suited the village two years ago, before the dragon had struck. Perryn had watched the flames of the attack from his tower, sick with sympathy—and with guilt for doing nothing, even though he knew there was nothing he could do. He remembered his father’s helpless rage.

  The lean, grim-faced villagers of Fair Meadows got four coppers from his purse before they revealed that the bard had gone east from there. At least they hadn’t recognized Perryn. These men would have turned him over to anyone who offered them a coin. Remaining unnoticed was the only way for Perryn to elude his father. Fortunately, Fair Meadows lay north of the castle. His father would assume he’d fled south, as he had before. It might be weeks before these men were questioned, and hopefully they wouldn’t even remember a curious peasant boy. The sun had been setting when Perryn trudged into Williten and located the crowded inn.

  He heard the tavern maid’s quick, light tread approaching once more.

  “Excu—” Perryn found himself looking at her back again as she whisked away. He reached into his purse and pulled out a copper piece. The tavern maid appeared before him as if by magic.

  “Can I get you something, young sir?”

  “Just some information. I need to know if a bard passed through here a few days ago, and where he went from here.”

  “Oh, I can tell you that.” The copper vanished into her pocket. “He did good business in the taproom for several nights, the saucy scoundrel. He played that old harp of his to a treat. Made everybody merry. That’s why Pa was so peeved when I…” Her eyes slipped down, and she blushed. “We weren’t doing anything, really. But Pa said…well, he asked Lysander to move on. Anything else?”

  “No,” said Perryn, slightly stunned. “Wait! I mean, yes. Do you know where he went?”

  “To Drindle.” The girl gestured to the west. “At least, that’s what he said. But frankly, he’s not the type a girl would do well to believe, if you know what I mean.”

  “Wait,” said Perryn again, as she started to move off. “Is there somewhere I can sleep tonight, for a copper or two? I don’t have much money.”

  “Two coppers for the stables, there’s straw in the loft, water in the well; three coppers for breakfast, pay in advance,” the girl recited crisply.

  Perryn fished out two more coppers, which disappeared as quickly as the first. “Thank—” She was gone.

  Perryn grinned and tucked his purse back in his belt. It was lighter than it had been this morning, but some things were going right—no one would think to search for him in a stable loft. He picked up his satchel and went out, unaware of the man who watched him go.

  THE STRAW SCRATCHED THROUGH HIS CLOAK. Perryn turned and turned again. Exhausted as he was, he’d expected to fall asleep quickly, despite the fact that the straw pile in the stable loft wasn’t nearly as comfortable as his own bed. At least it was quiet. The horses in the stalls below made little noise beyond the occasional thump of a restless hoof. And as for the smell, well, he liked the scent of horses and dusty leather. So he should be sound asleep right now, but instead, he lay thinking.

  Was his father worrying about him? And what about Cedric? What would he do, now that Perryn had fled? Could he damage Idris irreversibly, if Perryn took too long on his quest? The letter to his chieftain had sounded like the Norsemen were planning for the long term, making slow, sure moves. Still, it might be too soon to try the mirror again, but maybe not. The mirror was notoriously erratic.

  After a few moments of groping in the dark, Perryn settled back with the mirror on his lap. Even when he put on his spectacles, all he could see in the dimness was a faint gleam of light off the glass.

  “Mirror of Idris,” he said softly. “I am Perryndon, Prince of Idris, and I seek your aid. Show me…”

  My father’s reaction to my flight. But wasn’t it more important to find out about Cedric’s plans?

  “Show me the reaction to my flight.” He would let the mirror determine what he needed to see!

  The dim reflection of his own face was a pale blur in the mirror’s surface. Perryn held his breath. A moment passed. Another. Disappointment welled in his heart. It was too soon. The mirror was drained—

  Suddenly the reflection glimmered, swirled, and began to glow. Perryn leaned forward, staring at the picture that formed there. A road. No, a fork in the road, with the main road continuing on and a smaller track branching off into some hills. Thick bushes surrounded the lesser branch, and although Perryn couldn’t see into their shadows—it was night there as well—it was clear there were no people present.

  Perryn sighed. It was too soon to try again. He should let the mirror rebuild its strength.

  “Thank you,” Perryn murmured as the vision faded. He knew he should put the mirror back into his satchel, but his own weariness swamped him and he set it aside, thrusting it into the straw near his boots. He would repack everything in the morning.

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER PERRYN SHIFTED RESTLESSLY, not quite asleep, but not awake either. He heard a rustling in the straw beside him, followed by a tug at his belt, and brushed at it sleepily. Another tug. What was it? A rat?!

  Perryn jerked upright, flailing at the straw beside him. A strong hand grabbed his collar and thrust his face into the fabric of his cloak. He couldn’t breathe! He struggled helplessly. Cedric? No, please! A hard yank at his belt—his purse! Bright spots were forming in the darkness behind his eyes. The hand on his collar yanked him up, and he gasped for air. The world went black.

  HIS JAW HURT. WHY WERE THERE WOODEN RAFTERS above his bed instead of curtains? Perryn groped for his spectacles but he couldn’t find them. He reached up and touched his jaw. A swelling bruise. It hurt. Not Cedric, a thief. His purse was gone. He was sleeping in a stable, and his purse was gone. But what about…the mirror!

  It took several minutes of searching through the straw near his boots to find it, but at least the thief hadn’t noticed it. Losing his money was bad enough. The tears that rose in his eyes were tears of relief, Perryn told himself firmly.

  “I will not give up,” he said to the empty loft. “I will not go back, and I will not turn south.”

  Running south at the first sign of trouble would prove that Perryn was as worthless as his father claimed, and tears wouldn’t help him get his money back. Perhaps the tavern keeper could. Perryn groped his way to the ladder.

  The tavern keeper offered many consoling words, and so did his wife and daughter. They found Perryn’s spectacles in the loft—undamaged, thank goodness—but they didn’t agree to replace the money he had lost, or even supply him with breakfast. They did offer to send a groom to fetch the mayor, but Perryn refused. Machidius wrote that it was the duty of all men to assist in the apprehension of thieves, but the mayor might recognize him. He would certainly remember the incident when Perryn’s father came in search of his missing son.

  The thief had gone through his satchel and evidently decided that Perryn’s bread an
d cheese weren’t worth stealing, but his food was nearly gone anyway by the time Perryn tramped wearily into the small village of Drindle. It was mid-afternoon, and the tavern there had only one customer.

  The tapster’s gaze moved slowly from Perryn’s dirty boots, past his scrapped knuckles, to his bruised jaw.

  “Money first,” he said.

  “I haven’t any money,” Perryn admitted.

  “Then get out.”

  Perryn gritted his teeth. “Please, all I need is some information. I’m looking for a bard. I think his name is Lysander.”

  “Oh, him. He left town this morning. He had enough money to stay the night, but after that we asked him to leave. This is a hard-working village—we don’t encourage vagrants.” The tapster’s gaze was very direct.

  “All right,” said Perryn wearily. “Just tell me where he went.”

  “How should I know?”

  Perryn’s shoulders slumped in defeat.

  “If I were a bard, I’d go to Dunstable,” said the customer. “It’s the only town in the area of any size and there’s a market day tomorrow. A big crowd with lots to spend. Your bard will be there, or I miss my guess. I’m going myself, as soon as the smith fixes my wagon wheel.”

  Perryn turned to study the man. He had big shoulders and a friendly face. “You’re a farmer?”

  “That’s right. I’m going into Dunstable to pick up some seed. Planting time is almost here, and you’ve got to put something into the ground if you want something back.”

  The tapster snorted. “If the dragon doesn’t come along some cold autumn night and burn your harvest to ashes.”

  The farmer gave him a sympathetic glance. “He’s from Fair Meadows,” he told Perryn quietly, and Perryn nodded in sudden understanding. “My wagon will be empty on the way out. I can give you a ride, if you want it.”

  PERRYN FELL ASLEEP IN THE JOLTING WAGON AND didn’t wake until they rolled onto Dunstable’s noisy cobblestones.

  “It’s getting lively already,” the farmer noted as Perryn scrambled onto the seat beside him. They were part of a long, slow-moving line of carts heading toward the market square.

  As Perryn rubbed the sleep from his eyes and adjusted his spectacles, he saw that the town teemed with people: farmers, housewives, craftsmen, and merchants. He’d never been in a town this large—the village that served Idris Castle was smaller, and when he’d run away before he hadn’t gotten very far. The clamor of voices echoing off the cobbled streets and stone walls was disconcerting, though Perryn tried not to show it. The Prince of Idris shouldn’t gawk like a country bumpkin.

  Then the shutters of an inn flew open, and a man sailed out onto the road. The crashes and thuds of a brawl reached them through the open window. The man rolled to his feet and ran back into the tavern. Shouts for the town guard rose from people on the street. Perryn realized he was staring, but he couldn’t seem to stop.

  The flow of carts carried them closer to the brawl. The town guard was coming. Perryn swallowed, trying not to look as nervous as he felt.

  “Don’t worry,” said the farmer cheerfully. “The guard will take care of it.”

  Two burly guardsmen pushed through the crowd and into the tavern. The crashes and thuds grew louder, then began to dwindle.

  “You see,” said the farmer. “Just like I said.”

  Two guards emerged, dragging a slender young man with torn clothes and tangled, light-brown hair. His nose was bleeding onto his brightly embroidered tunic, but he still struggled in the guards’ grip.

  “My harp!” His voice was clear as a tenor bell. “You dragon-blasted fools, my harp’s in there! I’m not going anywhere without it.”

  “You’re going with us, like it or not,” the shorter of the two guards panted.

  “Either you let me get my harp, or I shall report your uncooperative conduct to the mayor himself,” announced the bard. He’d stopped fighting and stood straight, looking almost dignified in spite of his disheveled clothes and hair.

  The taller guard snorted. “What makes you think he’d listen to you?”

  “Because I know his daughter, Hyacinthe,” said the bard. “I saw her just last night.” The tall guard became very still. “She was with you. Of course, she didn’t call herself Hyacinthe then. What name was she using? Alyce? No, Anise, that was it. Tell me, does the mayor know…?”

  The tall guard turned and went back into the tavern. A moment later he emerged carrying a gracefully curved but battered harp, which he shoved into the bard’s waiting hands. The three of them went off through the crowd together.

  The farmer was laughing. “Your bard?”

  “I suppose he must be,” said Perryn ruefully, climbing down from the cart. “I’d better follow them. I thank you, sir, for all you’ve done.”

  “My pleasure,” said the farmer. “And don’t worry about following them. You’ll be able to find your bard in the town lockup anytime in the next month, or I miss my guess. Take care, lad.”

  Perryn bowed and set off to find the jail.

  But the bard was held in durance, by evil men, and Prince Perryndon was forced to labor mightily to free him.

  4

  “SO THEN I LOOKED IN HIS BAGS AND—”

  “—swindling me, the toad, right from—”

  “Silence!” roared the justice, for the fourth time.

  “But it—”

  “I—”

  “Excuse me,” said Perryn, trying to wiggle through the crowd in the public hall. “Excuse me, please.” No one budged.

  “Bailiff, throw them both in a cell!”

  Silence fell around the justice’s chair.

  “Ah, that’s better,” said the justice. “Let me see if I’ve managed to understand all this. You, sir, are a tavern keeper, who employed the bard Lysander to entertain your customers.”

  Perryn saw a three-inch gap between two broad backs and lunged for it. “Excuse me.”

  “Employed, hah,” the bard responded. “A pallet on the floor, scraps from the tables, and permission, permission! to keep the coins people offered, while I brought in crowds of—”

  “I took you in, fed you, housed you, and you repaid me with theft, you—”

  “Bailiff!”

  “Excuse me.” Perryn struggled onward. The crowd was getting thicker, and the noise level was rising again.

  “And you, Lysander, feeling that the tavern keeper was underpaying you, decided to increase your wages without his knowledge?”

  “It wasn’t theft,” said the bard. “This miserly rogue offered me all I could eat, if I honored his filthy hovel with my playing.”

  “Filthy! Hovel!”

  “Silence!”

  “Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” the justice declared. “Tavern keeper, we will return the food the bard was taking. Next time, be more careful of the character of those you employ. And as for you, master bard, there can be no doubt that you planned to steal from the tavern keeper.”

  Perryn wedged himself between two more bodies and squirmed. He couldn’t wait while the bard served a long sentence. His father would surely find him, and all his plans would come to nothing. Disastrous for him, and maybe for Idris, too.

  “You have also caused a public brawl and disturbed the king’s peace,” the justice continued. “Therefore, I sentence you to ninety days in lockup. If you want to take any of our jail food with you when you go, feel free.”

  “But you can’t do that!” Perryn burst through the crowd at last. “I need him.”

  The sudden silence was even more absolute than the hush produced by the justice’s previous threat. Everyone stared at him. Perryn belatedly remembered that interrupting the proceedings of a court was illegal. The impulse to run seized him. Weak willed. He forced himself to meet the justice’s gaze firmly.

  “I beg your pardon?” the justice said.

  “The boy is my brother,” said the bard quickly. “Dependent on my care. Just look at
the state he’s in! He’ll starve if I’m in jail. It was for him I took the food.”

  “Is that true, lad?” asked the justice.

  “Ah, well, no,” said Perryn.

  “You ungrateful cur!” exclaimed the bard. “After all the years I’ve fed you, clothed you—”

  “Silence!”

  “But I do need him,” said Perryn. “If I have to wait here ninety days…well, it will be too late. Please, sir, is there any way you could reduce his sentence?”

  “I could impose a fine instead.” The justice scratched his chin. “It should be…hmm. Ninety coppers. Do you have ninety coppers, lad?”

  “No.”

  “No money at all?” The justice eyed his patched, dusty clothing, and Perryn blushed.

  “I was robbed yesterday,” he explained.

  The justice’s brows rose. “I’ve heard nothing of this. Did you make a complaint?”

  “No,” said Perryn. “That is…it was in another town, and I was traveling on. I didn’t want to cause trouble.”

  Contempt flickered over the bailiff’s face, and Perryn realized that he sounded as weak as Cedric claimed. Anger rose instead of tears. Who cared what some local jail guard thought of him!

  “Isn’t there any other way?” he asked the justice desperately.

  “Hmm.”

  Perryn, struggling not to look pathetic, changed his mind. He needed their sympathy, even their pity. He let his desperation, his embarrassment sweep over him. Tears brimmed, running hot over his cheeks. Miraculously, the bard remained silent.

  “This is most irregular,” the justice complained. “I really don’t see…”

  “Please,” said Perryn. “It’s very important.”

  “Humph. We can’t have you wandering the streets without a copper for ninety days, that’s for certain.” The justice rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I’ll make you a deal. You say you want this man. Out behind the jail is a big pile of wood. We’ve gotten low on kindling over the winter. A woodcutter could chop it in two or three days, but he’d charge us a gold piece for the job. That’s a bit more than ninety coppers, but it’s going to take you longer. You can sleep in the jail kitchen, we’ll feed you, and you can have your bard as soon as the wood is chopped. Until then, he’s a prisoner. Good enough?”