The Captain had no intention of wasting his time. If the humans chose to ignore the omens, that was their business. The problem was not his. He had the Sovereign Stone, a most precious and holy object. He would return home and begin to study how it might be used to help his people. Shoving the guards out of his way with such force that they smashed a table or two and started all the women screaming in terror, the two orken left the palace.
The moment they walked outdoors the rain ceased, the tattered clouds blew away. The stars, whose bright and steadfast light guide the orken over the ocean by night, guided them unerringly through the confusing levels and streets of Vinnengael, back to the sea.
The Bitter Center
The early-summer rain fell the next day and the day after that, enclosing the castle in a gray wall of water. Everyone was in an equally gray mood, experiencing the vague and disquieting depression brought about by the fact that the ceremonies were over, the illustrious personages and their entourages had returned to their respective kingdoms, the time of feasting and revelry was at an end. The rain was a presage of the gray monsoon days to come, when the clouds rolled in from the sea and soaked the land. Helmos’s wedding was anticipated, but not until fall, so there was nothing to look forward to for a while except more rain.
Dagnarus was in a particularly bad mood, wandering around the castle like a caged animal. The prince was not daunted by the rain, and would have ridden his horse through nothing less than a hurricane gale, but he had no companion and now no horse. Dunner was laid up in bed, unable to walk. His twisted leg hurt abominably in wet weather. Dagnarus’s horse had developed a swelling in its left foreleg, which Dunner said was not serious, but which must be rubbed several times daily with liniment, and under no circumstances, was the horse to be ridden. Dagnarus treated his horse himself, but even he could spend only so much time in the stables. Bored, he would return smelling of manure and wintergreen, to be hustled off to the bath by Silwyth.
The soldiers were out on maneuvers, which took away another of Dagnarus’s amusements. He had pleaded to be allowed to go with them but, in this instance, his mother had been unusually firm in her denial and King Tamaros had refused to consider it.
“I find it hellish growing old, Patch,” complained Dagnarus, from the ancient vantage point of his ten years. “If I were little, I could throw a tantrum and bawl my eyes out and Mother would do anything I asked. I can’t do that now.”
“Why not?” Gareth asked.
“Because soldiers don’t whine and cry, no matter what happens to them,” Dagnarus returned. “Not even if they take an arrow in the gut. If I threw a fit, Argot would hear of it, and he’d be disappointed in me. I thought about running away, stowing myself in the supply wagon until they were a long way off, too far to bring me back. But Argot said that would only get him into trouble, and so, of course, I couldn’t do it.”
Gareth sighed. He had taken a lot of abuse, both verbal and physical, from the prince in the last few days, ever since the ceremony, and wistfully hoped that Dagnarus would find something to occupy his bored mind.
The two were in the playroom. They had finished breakfast; Silwyth was supervising the cleaning of the prince’s room and attending to his other chores. Evaristo would arrive soon to begin Gareth’s lessons. Gareth wasn’t looking forward to the tutor’s coming as much as usual. The past two days, Dagnarus had been so bored he’d actually remained in the room with the two of them, mainly for the sake of companionship, not because he had any intention of pursuing his studies. Gareth could take no pleasure in his lessons with the prince seated opposite, moping and scowling and kicking the table leg.
Dagnarus roved about the playroom on a vain quest for something to do. Gareth, sighing again, pulled over a sheet of foolscap and, taking up his pen, began to practice making the graceful letters of the elven alphabet. His hand was wobbly and so, therefore, were the letters. Evaristo was certain to say his writing was a disgrace, but Gareth persevered and was soon so absorbed by his task that he forgot the prince’s presence. When Dagnarus spoke from right behind Gareth, the boy was so startled that he dropped the pen, making a large splotch on the paper.
“It’s that damn stone, Patch,” said Dagnarus. “I keep dreaming about it.”
“What stone?” Gareth asked, twisting in his chair.
Dagnarus stood over him, hands curled around the chair’s ornately carved back, fingers clenched so tightly the knuckles were white.
“The Sovereign Stone, fool,” Dagnarus said scathingly. “What other stone is there? I dream of it whenever I go to sleep.” His voice dropped. “The dreams are very strange, Patch.”
“Scary?” Gareth asked. He had never seen Dagnarus so intense about anything.
“No,” said Dagnarus after a moment’s pause. “In a way, maybe. Disturbing.” He paused again. “And exciting.” He sat down beside Gareth. “I don’t like the dreams, Patch. They make me feel…restless. I can’t sit still. I keep thinking I should be doing something, but I don’t know what. The dream wants something from me, Patch. And I can’t give it. At least, I don’t think I can, because I don’t understand what it wants. But at the same time—and here’s the exciting part, Patch—I know that if I give the dream what it wants, it will give me something back. Something wonderful. Just when I think I have it, I wake up and feel so frustrated I want to hit something.”
Having been on the receiving end of the prince’s frustration, Gareth knew Dagnarus was in earnest. So much in earnest that Gareth felt frightened and uncomfortable. He didn’t want to hear any more and wished Evaristo would come, but the tutor was late, probably on account of the rain.
Hoping to end the conversation, Gareth picked up his pen, dipped it in the ink, and started to return to his letters. To his astonishment, Dagnarus snatched the pen from his hand, pulled the foolscap over in front of himself.
“Look at this,” he said, drawing with quick, bold strokes, strokes so impatient that the pen spluttered in his hand, the point dug into the paper. “This idea came to me during the ceremony. I was standing there when my father caused the Sovereign Stone to separate into the four segments. He wasn’t looking at it, he was giving thanks to the gods. But I was looking at it, Patch, and this is what I saw.”
Dagnarus had drawn four circles, the four circles that represented the four elements. But he had not drawn them in a straight line, as was customary. He had drawn them in opposition to each other, one at each of the cardinal points. And he had made a black mark in the center, jabbing it so hard with the pen that the point broke.
“That’s me,” he said, tossing aside the useless pen and pointing at the center mark with an ink-stained finger. “That’s me, standing in the middle. Do you know what, Patch?” His voice vibrated with excitement. “If you stand here, in the center of this circle”—he moved his finger to one of the outer mandalas—“the one that represents Fire, you’d look around you and what would you see?”
He answered his own question, Gareth—staring at the drawing—was incapable of speech.
“You’d see nothing but the circle that surrounds you. Same if you stand in the center of Air and the center of Earth and the center of Water. But if you stand here, in the center of all four circles, where it’s empty, what do you see? Every single one of the other circles! And what’s interesting is this—no one standing in any of the other circles can see me. Because I’m hidden here.” He stuck the broken pen point into the circle, pressed hard, digging it deeper.
“Give me that!” A hand reached down from above the boys and plucked the foolscap from the table.
Startled, Gareth looked up to see Evaristo bending over them. The tutor’s face was livid. He looked angrier than Gareth ever remembered seeing him, angry and disturbed and shaken.
“Who put this idea into your head?” Evaristo demanded, his voice quivering. He glared at Dagnarus. “Answer me! Who told you about this?” Crumpling the foolscap in his hand, he shook the paper beneath the prince’s nose.
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br /> Dagnarus’s cheeks flushed crimson. He rose slowly and with dignity to his feet, fixed his imperious gaze upon the pale and furious tutor. “You forget yourself, Magus. How dare you speak to me in that tone? I am your prince.”
Evaristo seethed. For a terrible moment, Gareth thought the tutor might actually seize hold of the prince and shake him. At this tense juncture, Silwyth glided silently into the room, stood silently by, prepared to intervene should it become necessary. The sight of the elf appeared to restore Evaristo to his senses.
He went ashen, even his lips lost their color. He made a mumbled apology. “I am not well, Your Highness,” he said, and, indeed, his brow was covered with sweat. “I beg your indulgence. If I might be excused from my duties this day—”
Dagnarus appeared to consider it, then he gave an abrupt nod. “You may go. And,” he added magnanimously, “I hope you will soon feel better.”
Evaristo made a faint reply. Still carrying the crumpled foolscap in his fist, he walked unsteadily to the door, exchanging barbed glances with Silwyth on the way out.
“I trust Your Highness has suffered no harm,” said Silwyth, coming forward.
“None at all,” said Dagnarus, smiling impishly. He had enjoyed himself. He might be a prince, but he was also a child, and it was not often that the child, even a prince, could so thoroughly humble and intimidate an adult.
“The tutor carried away a sheet of paper with him. Is it Your Highness’s wish that I retrieve it?”
Dagnarus shrugged. “It was just a scribble. Nothing important. I can’t think what could have set the man off. Can you, Patch?”
Gareth made no reply. He stared, as if fascinated, at an ink dot left behind on the table, made when Dagnarus jabbed the pen through the paper.
Dagnarus regarded his friend speculatively, then said abruptly, “That is all, Silwyth. You may go.”
Silwyth bowed and retired, though slowly and with obvious reluctance.
“Well, Patch, I have earned you a holiday,” Dagnarus said loudly. He was now in an excellent mood. Leaning over, he whispered in Gareth’s ear. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
Gareth cast a guarded glance at the door. Moving closer to the prince, Gareth whispered, “I’ve seen a drawing like that before!”
“You have?” Dagnarus was disappointed, having fondly imagined he had conceived this idea himself. He frowned. “Where?”
“The Royal Library,” said Gareth. “In a book of magic.”
“Magic!” Dagnarus’s interest and good humor were restored. “No wonder Evaristo looked like a bee flew up his ass! What did it say? Tell me, Patch!”
Gareth was sorry to destroy the prince’s hopes. “I don’t know,” he said shamefacedly. “I couldn’t understand any of it. The book had a lot about death and emptiness and that picture was in there, too. The book gave me gooseflesh. I wanted to run off and wash my hands. It has something to do with the Void.”
He said that last word in a ghastly, impressive whisper, hoping this would discourage the prince. Gareth didn’t like the look on Dagnarus’s face—eager and excited and intense.
“You must find that book again, Patch. You must show it to me.”
Gareth shook his head. He lowered his gaze to the ink spot on the table. “I can’t,” he lied. “I don’t remember where it is. The library is enormous. You can’t imagine how many books. I couldn’t take it from the library anyway. They won’t allow—Ouch! You’re hurting me.”
Gareth tried to break free of the prince’s grip, but Dagnarus was strong, stronger than the whipping boy, and had his hand clenched around Gareth’s thin arm. “You will find it,” said Dagnarus. “You will find it, and you will show it to me.”
The pain was unbearable. Gareth feared the prince might break his arm.
“Yes, Your Highness.” Gareth whimpered, swallowing.
Dagnarus relaxed his grip. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I didn’t mean to, but you mustn’t say no to me, Patch. When I tell you to do something, you must do it. Not so much because I’m your prince, but because you’re my friend and you love me. Isn’t that true, Patch?”
Gareth averted his head, surreptitiously wiped away all trace of his tears, and nodded.
Dagnarus patted his friend on the arm where the white marks of his grasp, now reddening, could be seen quite clearly.
“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he said again.
Evaristo walked bare-headed into the rain without even knowing that he did so, so distraught that he forgot to pull the hood of his cloak over his head. Only when water began to run down the back of his tunic did he think of the hood, and then he discarded the notion. The rain was cooling to his fevered skin, actually felt good. And it brought him to his senses.
Entering the Temple, he paused in the entryway to shake the water from his cloak and to reflect on his actions—past and future. As to the past, he was not particularly proud of that. He had lost his head, admittedly. Hopefully nothing would come of it. As to the future…
One of the novices, passing through, saw Evaristo dripping wet and kindly went to fetch him a towel. The tutor mopped his sopping hair, gazed ruefully at the wet cuffs of his robes, the mud-spattered hem, and his generally bedraggled appearance. Not the way most people looked when they requested an audience with the Most Revered High Magus. But then, this was an emergency. At least he’d kept the foolscap dry, tucked safely between the leaves of a book he’d intended to give Gareth.
The Most Revered High Magus was in conference, of course, and could not be disturbed. Evaristo had expected nothing less. He sat in the waiting room, glad for the brief respite, glad to dry off and try to sort out his thoughts. He did not make much headway.
At length, the conference ended. The other magi walked out of the chamber. Several, who knew Evaristo, greeted him pleasantly and would have stayed to talk, but the High Magus’s secretary came for him at that moment. His friends gazed after him in wonder and concern. The tutor, they said among themselves, looked extremely ill.
The Most Revered High Magus received his unexpected and unscheduled visitor with cordial politeness, steering Evaristo to a seat by the fire and offering to send his servant for a change of dry clothing. Evaristo was thankful for the attention, but could not spare the time.
“The matter is urgent, High Magus,” he said, “or I would not have appeared before you in such a state, bringing the wet into your office. I thought you should see this immediately.”
“Yes, Magus,” said Reinholt, looking mystified and somewhat alarmed. He knew Evaristo, not well, but enough to know that the man was not one to jump at shadows. “What is it?”
Evaristo produced the book, laid it on Reinholt’s desk. The book opened of its own accord to the page where he had placed the foolscap. The tutor withdrew the drawing and laid it before the High Magus.
Reinholt frowned. “I had hoped the old religion was dead. Apparently it has resurfaced. Well, we shall have to deal with it.” He looked up at Evaristo. “Where did you come by this? Who made this drawing?”
Evaristo drew in a deep breath, let it out along with the responsibility that had lain so heavily upon his shoulders. “Prince Dagnarus, Your Worship.”
Reinholt stared. His gaze went back to the foolscap, his frown deepened. “That is not good,” he said, his voice low and troubled. “That is not good at all. Please, sit down, Evaristo. When did this occur?”
“Just this morning. I came immediately.” Evaristo sank thankfully into a chair opposite the High Magus’s desk.
“Tell me exactly what transpired,” said Reinholt in firm tones, intended to calm the distraught tutor. “But first, how certain are you that the prince drew…this.” He waved his hand at the foolscap, loath to name it.
“I am sure,” Evaristo said, sighing. “I saw him drawing something when I entered the room. I had no intention of surprising him, but he was so absorbed in his work he did not hear me come in. I stood over him and watched him place the point of his pen in the center circ
le. I heard him say…” Evaristo paused, to refresh his memory and to try to calm his shaking voice. “ ‘But if you stand here, in the center of all four circles, where it’s empty, what do you see? Every single one of the other circles. And no one standing in any of the other circles can see me. Because I’m hidden here.’ ”
“He said that. You are certain.”
“Yes, Your Worship.”
“And what did you do?”
Evaristo flushed. “I—I lost my head. ‘Give me that!’ I cried, and I snatched it from his hand. Then I demanded to know how he had come by it, who had showed it to him.”
“His response?” The Most Revered High Magus was quite deeply troubled.
“His Highness, quite rightly, reminded me that I was his subject and that he was not required to answer to me,” Evaristo admitted, ashamed. “At that point, I pleaded indisposition and begged to be allowed to leave. I came straight here.”
“You did rightly,” said Reinholt.
“I should not have reacted that way,” Evaristo continued, berating himself. “I made too much of it. I should have treated him as I once treated Gareth saying a naughty word—passed it off as juvenile behavior. That done, I am certain the prince and his young friend would have soon lost interest in it. By my actions, I have given the boys to know that this is important in some way.”
“Admittedly you should have handled the situation in a more rational fashion,” said Reinholt. “But do not be too hard on yourself, Evaristo. From what he said, His Highness already realizes this to be of importance. How do you think he learned of it? The elf? Silwyth?”
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