The Eyes Of The Dragon - King, Stephen

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Stephen King

The Eyes of the Dragon

Once, in a kingdom called Detain, there was a King with two sons. Detain was a very old kingdom and it had had hundreds of Kings, perhaps even thousands; when time goes on long enough, not even historians can remember everything. Roland the Good was neither the best nor the worst King ever to rule the land. He tried very hard not to do anyone great evil and mostly succeeded. He also tried ~ very hard to do great works, but, unfortunately, he didn’t succeed so well at that. The result was a very mediocre King; he doubted if he would be remembered long after he was dead. And his death might come at any time now, because he had grown old, and his heart was failing. He had perhaps one year left, perhaps three. Everyone who knew him, and everyone who observed his gray face and shaking hands when he held court, agreed that in five years at the very most a new King would be crowned in the great plaza at the foot of the Needle . . . and it would only be five years with God’s grace. So everyone in the Kingdom, from the richest baron and the most foppishly dressed courtier to the poorest serf and his ragged wife, thought and talked about the King in waiting, Roland’s elder son, Peter.

And one man thought and planned and brooded on something else: how to make sure that Roland’s younger son, Thomas, should be crowned King instead. This man was Flagg, the King’s magician.

Although Roland the King was old-he admitted to seventy years but was surely older than that-his sons were young. He had been allowed to marry late because he had met no woman who pleased his fancy, and because his mother, the great Dowager Queen of Delain, had seemed immortal to Roland and to everyone else-and that included her. She had ruled the Kingdom for almost fifty years when, one day at tea, she put a freshly cut lemon in her mouth to ease a troublesome cough that had been plaguing her for a week or better. At that particular teatime, a juggler had been performing for the amusement of the Dowager Queen and her court. He was juggling five cun-ningly made crystal balls. Just as the Queen put the slice of lemon into her mouth, the juggler dropped one of his glass spheres. It shattered on the tiled floor of the great

East Court

-room with a loud report. The Dowager Queen gasped at the sound. When she gasped, she pulled the lemon slice down her throat and choked to death very quickly. Four days later, the coronation of Roland was held in the Plaza of the Needle. The juggler did not see it; he had been beheaded on the executioner’s block behind the Needle three days before that.

A King without heirs makes everybody nervous, especially when the King is fifty and balding. It was thus in Roland’s best interest to marry soon, and to make an heir soon. His close advisor, Flagg, made Roland very aware of this. He also pointed out that at fifty, the years left to him in which he could hope to create a child in a woman’s belly were only a few. Flagg advised him to take a wife soon, and never mind waiting for a lady of noble birth who would take his fancy. If such a lady had not come into view by the time a man was fifty, Flagg pointed out, she probably never would.

Roland saw the wisdom of this and agreed, never knowing that Flagg, with his lank hair and his white face that was almost

always hidden behind a hood, understood his deepest secret: that he had never met the woman of his fancy because he had never really fancied women at all. Women worried him. And he had never fancied the act that puts babies in the bellies of women. That act worried him, too.

But he saw the wisdom of the magician’s advice, and six months after the Dowager Queen’s funeral, there was a much happier event in the Kingdom-the marriage of King Roland to Sasha, who would become the mother of Peter and Thomas.

Roland was neither loved nor hated in Delain. Sasha, however, was loved by all. When she died giving birth to the second son, the Kingdom was plunged into darkest mourning that lasted a year and a day. She had been one of six women Flagg had suggested to his King as possible brides. Roland had known none of these women, who were all similar in birth and station. They were all of noble blood but none of royal blood; all were meek and pleasant and quiet. Flagg suggested no one who might take his place as the mouth closest to the King’s ear. Roland chose Sasha because she seemed the quietest and meekest of the half- dozen, and the least likely to frighten him. So they were wed. Sasha of the Western Barony (a very small barony indeed) was then seventeen years old, thirty-three years younger than her husband. She had never seen a man with his drawers off before her wedding night. When, on that occasion, she observed his flaccid penis, she asked with great interest: “What’s that, Hus-band?” If she had said anything else, or if she had said what she said in a slightly different tone of voice, the events of that night- and this entire history-might have taken another course; in spite of the special drink Flagg had given him an hour before, at the end of the wedding feast, Roland might simply have slunk away. But he saw her then exactly as she was-a very young girl who knew even less about the baby-making act than he did-and observed her mouth was kind, and began to love her, as everyone in Delain would grow to love her.

“It is King’s Iron,” he said.

“It doesn’t look like iron,” said Sasha, doubtfully.

“It is before the forge,” he said.

“Ali!” said she. “And where is the forge?”

“If you will trust me,” said he, getting into bed with her, “I will show you, for you have brought it from the Western Barony with you but did not know it.”

The people of Delain loved her because she was kind and good. It was Queen Sasha who created the Great Hospital, Queen Sasha who wept so over the cruelty of the bear baiting in the Plaza that King Roland finally outlawed the practice, Queen Sasha who pleaded for a Remission of King’s Taxes in the year of the great drought, when even the leaves of the Great Old Tree went gray. Did Flagg plot against her, you might ask? Not at first. These were relatively small things in his view, because he was a real magician, and had lived hundreds and hundreds of years.

He even allowed the Remission of Taxes to pass, because the year before, Delain’s navy had smashed the Anduan pirates, who had plagued the Kingdom’s southern coast for over a hundred years. The skull of the Anduan pirate-king grinned from a spike outside the palace walls and Delain’s treasury was rich with re-covered plunder. In larger matters, matter of state, it was still Flagg’s mouth which was closest to King Roland’s ear, and so Flagg was at first content.

Although Roland grew to love his wife, he never grew to love that activity which most men consider sweet, the

act which produces both the lowliest cook’s ‘prentice and the heir to the highest throne. He and Sasha slept in separate bed-rooms, and he did not visit her often. These visits would happen no more than five or six times in a year, and on some of those occasions no iron could be made at the forge, in spite of Flagg’s ever more potent drinks and Sasha’s unfailing sweetness.

But, four years after the marriage, Peter was made in her bed. And on that one night, Roland had no need of Flagg’s drink, which was green and foaming and which always made him feel a little strange in his head, as if he had gone crazy. He had been hunting that day in the Preserves with twelve of his men. Hunt-ing was the thing that Roland had always loved most of all -the smell of the forest, the crisp tang of the air, the sound of the horn, and the feel of the bow as an arrow left on a true, hard course. Gunpowder was known but rare in Delain, and to hunt game with an iron tube was considered low and contemptible in any case.

Sasha was reading in bed when he came to her, his ruddy, bearded face alight, but she laid her book on her bosom and listened raptly to his story as he told it, his hands moving. Near the end, he drew back to show her how he had drawn back the bow and had let Foe-Hammer, his father’s great arrow, fly across the little glen. When he did this, she laughed and clapped and won his heart.

The King’s Preserves had almost been hunted out. In these modern days it was rare to find so much as a good-sized deer in them, and no one had seen a dragon since time out of mind. Most men would have laughed if you had suggested there might still be such a mythy creature left in that tame forest. But an hour before sundown on that day, as Roland and his party were about to turn back, that was just what they found . . . or what found them.

The dragon came crashing and blundering out of the under-brush, its scales glowing a greenish copper color, its soot-caked nostrils venting smoke. It had not been a small dragon, either,

but a male just before its first molting. Most of the party were thunderstruck, unable to draw an arrow or even to move.

It stared at the hunting party, its normally green eyes went yellow, and it fluttered its wings. There was no danger that it could fly away from them-its wings would not be well developed enough to support it in the air for at least another fifty years and two more moltings-but the baby-webbing which holds the wings against a dragon’s body until its tenth or twelfth year had fallen away, and a single flutter stirred enough wind to topple the head huntsman backward out of his saddle, his horn flying from his hand.

Roland was the only one not stunned to utter movelessness, and although he was too modest to say so to Sasha, there was real heroism in his next few actions, as well as a sportsman’s zest for the kill. The dragon might well have roasted most of the surprised party alive, if not for Roland’s prompt action. He gigged his horse forward five steps, and nocked his great arrow. He drew and fired. The arrow went straight to the mark-that one gill-like soft spot under the dragon’s throat, where it takes in air to create fire. The worm fell dead with a final fiery gust, which set all the bushes around it alight. The squires put this out quickly, some with water, some with beer, and not a few with piss and, now that I think of it, most of the piss was really beer, because when Roland went a-hunting, he took a great lot of beer with him, and he was not stingy with it, either.

The fire was out in five minutes, the dragon gutted in fifteen. You still could have boiled a kettle over its steaming nostrils when its tripes were let out upon the ground. The dripping nine-chambered heart was carried to Roland with great ceremony. He ate it raw, as was the custom, and found it delicious. He only regretted the sad knowledge that he would almost certainly never have another.

Perhaps it was the dragon’s heart that made him so strong that night. Perhaps it was only his joy in the hunt, and in knowing he had acted quickly and coolheadedly when all the others were *dragon image page 7*

sitting stunned in their saddles (except, of course, for the head huntsman, who had been lying stunned on his back). For whatever reason, when Sasha clapped her hands and cried, “Well done, my brave Husband!,” he fairly leaped into her bed. Sasha greeted him with open eyes and a smile that reflected his own triumph. That night was the first and only time Roland enjoyed his wife’s embrace in sobriety. Nine months later-one month for each chamber of the dragon’s heart-Peter was born in that same bed, and the Kingdom rejoiced-there was an heir to the throne.

You probably think-if you have bothered to think about it at all-that Roland must have stopped taking Flagg’s strange green drink after the birth of Peter. Not so. He still took it occasionally. This was because he loved Sasha, and wanted to please her. In some places, people assume that only men enjoy sex, and that a woman would be grateful to be left alone. The people of Delain, however, held no such peculiar ideas-they assumed that a woman took normal pleasure in that act which produced earth’s most pleasurable creatures. Roland knew he was not properly attentive to his wife in this matter, but he resolved to be as attentive as he could, even if this meant taking Flagg’s drink. Only Flagg himself knew how rarely the King went to his Queen’s bed.

Some four years after the birth of Peter, on New Year’s Day, a great blizzard visited Delain. It was the greatest, save one, in living memory-the other I’ll tell you of later. Heeding an impulse he could not explain even to himself, Flagg mixed the King a draught of double strength-perhaps it was something in the wind that urged him to do it. Ordinarily, Roland would have made a grimace at the awful taste and perhaps

put it aside, but the excitement of the storm had caused the annual New Year’s Day party to be especially gay, and Roland had become very drunk. The blazing fire on the hearth reminded him of the dragon’s final explosive breath, and he had toasted the head, which was mounted on the wall, many times. So he drank the green potion off at a single gulp, and an evil lust fell upon him. He left the dining hall at once and visited Sasha. In the course of trying to love her, he hurt her.

“Please, Husband,” she cried, sobbing.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “Huzzz . . .” He fell heavily asleep beside her and remained insensible for the next twenty hours. She never forgot the strange smell that had been on his breath that night. It had been a smell like rotten meat, a smell like death. Whatever, she wondered, had he been eating . . . or drinking?

Roland never touched Flagg’s drink again, but Flagg was well satisfied, nevertheless. Nine months later, Sasha gave birth to Thomas, her second son. She died bringing him forth. Such things happened, of course, and while everyone was saddened, no one was really surprised. They believed they knew what had happened. But the only people in the Kingdom who really knew the circumstances of Sasha’s death were Anna Crookbrows, the midwife, and Flagg, the King’s magician. Flagg’s patience with Sasha’s meddling had finally run out.

*.Peter was only five when his mother died, but he remembered her dearly. He thought her sweet, tender, loving, full of mercy. But five is a young age, and most of his memories were not very specific. There was one clear memory which he held in his mind, however-it was of a reproach she had made to him. Much later, the memory of this reproach became vital to him. It had to do with his napkin.

Every first of Five-month, a feast was held at court to celebrate the spring plantings. In his fifth year, Peter was allowed to attend for the first time. Custom decreed that Roland should sit at the head of the table, the heir to the throne at his right hand, the Queen at the foot of the table. The practical result of this was that Peter would be out of her reach during the meal, and so Sasha coached him carefully beforehand on how he should behave. She wanted him to show up well, and to be mannerly. And, of course, she knew that during the meal he would be on his own, because his father had no idea of manners at all.

Some of you may wonder why the task of instructing Peter on his manners fell to Sasha. Did the boy not have a governess? (Yes, as a matter of fact he had two.) Were there no servants whose service was dedicated wholly to the little prince? (Battalions of them.) The trick was not to get these people to take care of Peter but to keep them away. Sasha wanted to raise him herself, at least as much as she could. She had very definite ideas about how her son should be raised. She loved him dearly and wanted to be with him for her own selfish reasons. But she also realized that she had a deep and solemn responsibility in the matter of Peter’s nurture. This little boy would be King someday, and above all else, Sasha wanted him to be good. A good boy, she thought, would be a good King.

Great banquets in the King’s Hall were not very neat affairs, and most nannies wouldn’t have been very concerned about the little boy’s table manners. Why, he is to be the King! they would have said, a little shocked at the idea that they should correct him in such piddling matters. Who cares if he spills the gravy boat? Who cares if he dribbles on his ruff, or even wipes his hands on it? Did not King Alan in the old days sometimes vomit into his plate and then command his court jester to come nigh and “drink this nice hot soup”? Did not King John often bite the heads off live trout and then put the flopping bodies into the bodices of the serving girls’ dresses? Will not this banquet end up, as most banquets do, with the participants’ throwing food across the table at each other?

Undoubtedly it would, but by the time things degenerated to the food-throwing stage, she and Peter would long since have retired. What concerned Sasha was that attitude of who cares. She thought it was the worst idea anyone could ever plant in the head of a little boy destined to be King.

So Sasha instructed Peter carefully, and she observed him carefully on the night of the banquet. And later, as-he lay sleepy in his bed, she talked to him.

Because she was a good mother, she first complimented him lovingly on his behavior and manners-and this was right, because for the most part they had been exemplary. But she knew that no one would correct him where he went wrong unless she did it herself, and she knew she must do it now, in these few years when he idolized her. So when she was finished complimenting him, she said:

“You did one thing wrong, Pete, and I never want to see you do it again.”

Peter lay in his bed, his dark blue eyes looking at her solemnly. “What was that, Mother?”

“You didn’t use your napkin,” said she. “You left it folded by your plate, and it made me sorry to see it. You ate the roast chicken with your fingers, and that was fine, because that is how men do it. But when you put the chicken down again, you wiped your fingers on your shirt, and that is not right.”

“But Father . . . and Mr. Flagg . . . and the other nobles . . .”

“Bother Flagg, and bother all the nobles in Delain!” she cried with such force that Peter cringed back in his bed a little. He was afraid and ashamed for having made those roses bloom in her cheeks. “What your father does is right, for he is the King, and what you do when you are King will always be right. But Flagg is not King, no matter how much he would like to be, and the nobles are not Kings, and you are not King yet, but only a little boy who forgot his manners.”

She saw he was afraid, and smiled. She laid her hand on his brow.

“Be calm, Peter,” she said. “It is a small thing, but still im-

portant-because you’ll be King in your own time. Now run and fetch your slate.”

“But it’s bedtime-“

“Bother bedtime, too. Bedtime can wait. Bring your slate.”

Peter ran for his slate.

Sasha took the chalk tied to the side and carefully printed three letters. “Can you read this word, Peter?”

Peter nodded. There were only a few words that he could read, although he knew most of the Great Letters. This happened to be one of the words. “It says con.”

Yes that’s right. Now write it backward and see what you fin d

`’;:.. Backward a•: Peter said doubtfully.

“Yes, that’s right. “

Peter did so, his letters staggering childishly across the slate below his mother’s neat printing. He was astounded to find another of the few words he could read.

DOG! Mamma! It says DOG!”

“Yes. It says dog.” The sadness in her voice quenched Peter’s excitement at once. His mother pointed from GOD to DOG. “These are the two natures of man,” she said. “Never forget them, because someday you will be King and Kings grow to be great and tall-as great and tall as dragons in their ninth moltings.”

“Father isn’t great and tall,” objected Peter. Roland was, in fact, short and rather bowlegged. Also, he carried a great belly in front of him from all the beer and mead he had consumed.

Sasha smiled.

“He is, though. Kings grow invisibly, Peter, and it happens all at once, as soon as they grasp the scepter and the crown is put on their heads in the Plaza of the Needle!”

“They do?” Peter’s eyes grew large and round. He thought that the subject had wandered far from his failure to use his napkin at the banquet, but he was not sorry to see such an embarrassing topic lost in favor of this tremendously interesting

one. Besides, he had already resolved that he would never forget to use his napkin again-if it was important to his mother, then it was important to him.

“Oh yes, they do. Kings grow most awfully big, and that’s why they have to be specially careful, for a very big person could crush smaller ones under his feet just taking a walk, or turning around, or sitting down quickly in the wrong place. Bad Kings do such things often. I think even good Kings cannot avoid doing them sometimes.”

“I don’t think I understand-“

“Then listen a moment longer.” She tapped the slate again. “Our preachers say that our natures are partly of God and partly of Old Man Splitfoot. Do you know who Old Man Splitfoot Is, Peter?”

“He’s the devil.”

“Yes. But there are few devils outside of made-up stories, Pete-most bad people are more like dogs than devils. Dogs are friendly but stupid, and that’s the way most men and women are when they are drunk. When dogs are excited and confused, they may bite; when men are excited and confused, they may fight. Dogs are great pets because they are loyal, but if a pet is all a man is, he is a bad man, I think. Dogs can be brave, but they may also be cowards that will howl in the dark or run away from danger with their tails between their legs. A dog is just as eager to lick the hand of a bad master as he is to lick the hand of a good one, because dogs don’t know the difference between good and bad. A dog will eat slops, vomit up the part his stomach can’t stand, and then go back for more.”

She fell silent for a moment, perhaps thinking of what was going on in the banqueting hall right now-men and women roaring with good-natured drunken laughter, flinging food at each other, and sometimes turning aside to vomit casually on the floor beside their chairs. Roland was much the same, and sometimes this made her sad, but she did not hold it against him, nor did she tax him with it. It was his way. He might promise to reform

in order to please her, and he might even do it, but he would not be the same man afterward.

“Do you understand these things, Peter?”

Peter nodded.

“Fine! Now, tell me.” She leaned toward him. “Does a dog use a napkin?”

Humbled and ashamed, Peter looked down at the counterpane and shook his head. Apparently the conversation hadn’t wandered as far as he had thought. Perhaps because the evening had been very full and because he was now very tired, tears rose in his eyes and spilled down his cheeks. He struggled against the sobs that wanted to come. He locked them in his chest. Sasha saw this and admired it.

“Don’t cry over an unused napkin, my love,” said Sasha, “for that was not my intention.” She rose, her full and pregnant belly before her. The delivery of Thomas was now very near. “Your behavior was otherwise exemplary. Any mother in the Kingdom would have been proud of a young son who behaved himself half so well, and my heart is full with admiration for you. I only tell you these things because I am the mother of a prince. That is sometimes hard, but it cannot be changed, and i’ truth, I would not change it if I could. But remember that someday lives will depend on your every waking motion; lives may even depend on dreams which come to you in sleep. Lives may not depend on whether or not you use your napkin after the roast chicken . . . but they may. They may. Lives have depended on less, at times. All I ask is that in everything you do, you try to remember the civilized side of your nature. The good side-the God side. Will you promise to do that, Peter?”

“I promise. “

“Then all is well.” She kissed him lightly. “Luckily, I am young and you are young. We will talk of these things more, when you have more understanding.”

They never did, but Peter never forgot the lesson: he always used his napkin, even when those around him did not.

So Sasha died.

She has little more part in this story, yet there is one further thing about her you should know: she had a dollhouse. This dollhouse was very large and very fine, almost a castle in miniature. When the time of her marriage came round, Sasha mustered as much cheer as she could, but she was sad to be leaving everyone and everything at the great house in the Western Barony where she had grown up-and she was a little bit nervous, too. She told her mother, “I have never been married before and do not know if I shall like it.”

But of all the childish things she left behind, the one she regretted most was the dollhouse she had had ever since she was a little girl.

Roland, who was a kind man, somehow discovered this, and although he was also nervous about his future life (after all, he had never been married before, either), he found time to commission Quentin Ellender, the greatest craftsman in the land, to build his new wife a new dollhouse. “I want it to be the finest dollhouse a young lady ever had,” he told Ellender. “I want her to look at it once and forget about her old dollhouse forever.”

As you’ll no doubt realize, if Roland really meant this, it was a foolish thing to say. No one ever forgets a toy that made him or her supremely happy as a child, even if that toy is replaced by one like it that is much nicer. Sasha never forgot her old dollhouse, but she was quite impressed with the new one. Anyone who was not a total idiot would have been. Those who saw it declared it was Quentin Ellender’s best work, and it may have been. It was a country house in miniature, very like the one Sasha had lived in with her parents in rolling Western Barony. Everything in it was small, but so cunningly made you would swear it must really work . . . and most things in it did!

The stove, for instance, really got hot and would even cook tiny portions of food. If you put a piece of hard coal no bigger than a matchbox in it, it would burn all day . . . and if you reached into the kitchen with your clumsy big-person’s finger and happened to touch the stove while the coal was burning, it would give you a burn for your pains. There were no faucets and no flushing toilets, because the Kingdom of Delain did not know about such things-and doesn’t even to this day-but if you were very careful, you could pump water from a hand pump that stood not much taller than your pinkie finger. There was a sewing room with a spinning wheel that really spun and a loom that really wove. The spinet in the parlor would really play, if you touched the keys with a toothpick, and the tone was true. People who saw this said it was a miracle, and surely Flagg must have been involved somehow. When Flagg heard such stories, he only smiled and said nothing. He had not been involved in the dollhouse at all-he thought it a silly project, in truth-but he also knew it was not always necessary to make claims and tell people how wonderful you were to achieve greatness. Sometimes all you had to do was look wise and keep your mouth shut.

In Sasha’s dollhouse were real Kashamin rugs, real velvet curtains, real china plates; the cold cabinet really kept things cold. The wainscoting in the receiving parlor and the front hall was of cherished ironwood. There was glass in all the windows and a many-colored fanlight over the wide front doors.

All in all it was the jolliest dollhouse any child ever dreamed of. Sasha clapped her hands over it with real delight at the wedding party when it was unveiled, and thanked her husband for it. Later she went to Ellender’s workshop and not only thanked him but curtsied deeply before him, an act that was almost unheard of-in that day and age, Queens did not curtsy to mere artisans. Roland was pleased and Ellender, whose sight had failed noticeably in the course of the project, was deeply touched.

But it did not make her forget her old dear dollhouse at home, as ordinary as it seemed when compared with this one, and she did not spend as many rainy afternoons playing with it-rearranging the furniture, lighting the stove and watching the chimneys smoke, pretending that there was a high tea going on or that there was to be a great dinner party for the Queen-as she had before, even as an older girl of fifteen and sixteen. One of the reasons was very simple. There was no fun making ready for a pretend party at which the Queen would be in attendance when she was the Queen. And maybe that one reason was really all the reasons. She was a grown-up now, and she discovered that being a grown-up was not quite what she had suspected it would be when she was a child. She had thought then that she . would make a conscious decision one day to simply put her toy and games and little make-believes away. Now she discovered that was not what happened at all. Instead, she discovered, interest simply faded. It became less and less and less, until a dust of years drew over the bright pleasures of childhood, and they were forgotten.

peter, a little boy who would someday be King, had dozens of toys-no, if I am to tell you the truth, he had thousands of toys. He had hundreds of lead soldiers with which he fought great battles, and dozens of play horses. He had games and balls and jacks and marbles. He had stilts that made him five feet high. He had a magical spring-stick on which he could bounce, and all the drawing paper he wanted in a time when paper was extremely hard to make and only wealthy people could afford to have it.

But of all the toys in the castle, the one he loved the best was his mother’s dollhouse. He had never known the one in the Western Barony, and so to him this was the dollhouse of doll

houses. He would sit before it for hours on end when the rain poured down outside, or when the winter wind shrieked out of a blue throat filled with snow. When he fell ill with Children’s Tattoo (a disease which we call chicken pox), he had a servant bring it to him on a special table that went over his bed and played with it almost ceaselessly until he was well.

He loved to imagine the tiny people that would fill the house; sometimes they were almost so real he could see them. He talked for them in different voices and invented them all. They were the King family. There was Roger King, who was brave and powerful (if not very tall, and slightly bowlegged), and who had once killed a dragon. There was lovely Sarah King, his wife. And there was their little boy, Petie, who loved and was loved by them. Not to mention, of course, all the servants he invented to make the beds, stoke the stove, fetch the water, cook the meals, and mend the clothes.

Because he was a boy, some of the stories he made up to go with the house were a little more bloodthirsty than the stories Sasha had made up to go with hers as a little girl. In one of them, the Anduan pirates were all around the house, wanting to get in and slaughter the family. There was a famous fight. Dozens of pirates were killed, but in the end they were too many. They made to attack for the final time. But just before they did, the King’s Own Guard-this part was played by Peter’s lead soldiers-arrived and killed every one of those rotten Anduan sea

dogs. In another story, a nest of dragons burst out of a nearby

wood (usually the nearby wood was under Sasha’s sofa by the

window), meaning to burn up the house with their furious breath.

But Roger and Petie rushed out with their bows and killed every

one. “Until the ground was black with their icky old blood,”

Peter told his father the King that night at dinner, and this made

Roland roar with approval.

After Sasha died, Flagg told Roland that he did not believe it was right for a boy to be playing with dollhouses. It might not make him a sissy, Flagg said, but then again, it might. Certainly

it would not sound well, if the tale got out to the general population. And such stories always did. The castle was full of servants. Servants saw everything, and their tongues wagged.

“He’s only six,” Roland said, uneasy. Flagg, with his white, hungry face far back in his deep hood and his magical spells, always made him uneasy.

“Six is old enough to train a boy in the way he should go, Sire,” Flagg said. “Think you well on it. Your judgment will be right in this, as in all things.”

Think you well on it, Flagg said, and that was just what King Roland did, In fact, I should think it fair to say that he never thought on anything so hard during his entire twenty-some-year reign as King of Delain.

That probably sounds strange to you, if you have thought of all the duties a King has-weighty matters such as putting taxes on some things or ending them on others, whether or not to declare war, whether to pardon or condemn. What, you might say, was a decision over whether or not to allow a little boy to play with a dollhouse next to those other things?

Maybe nothing, maybe much. I will let you make up your mind on that. I will tell you that Roland was not the smartest King who had ever ruled in Delain. Thinking well had always been very hard work for him. It made him feel as if boulders were rolling around in his head. It made his eyes water and his temples throb. When he thought deeply, his nose got stuffed up.

As a boy, his studies in composition and mathematics and history had made his head ache so badly that he had been allowed to give them up at twelve and do what he did best, which was to hunt. He tried very hard to be a good King, but he had a feeling that he could never be good enough, or smart enough, to solve the Kingdom’s problems or to make many decisions the right way, and he knew if he made them the wrong way, people would suffer for it. If he had heard Sasha telling Peter about Kings after the banquet, he would have agreed completely. Kings really were bigger than other people, and sometimes-a lot of

times-he wished he were smaller. If you have ever in your life had serious questions about whether or not you were good enough for some task, then you will know how he felt. What you may not know is that such worries start to feed on themselves after awhile. Even if that feeling that you aren’t good enough to get the job done isn’t true at first, it can become true in time. This had happened to Roland, and over the years he had come to rely more and more on Flagg. He was sometimes troubled by the idea that Flagg was King in all but name-but these worries came only late at night. In the daytime he was only grateful for Flagg’s support.

If not for Sasha, Roland might have been a much worse King than he really was, and that was because the little voice he sometimes heard in the night when he couldn’t sleep held much more of the truth than his daytime gratitudes. Flagg really was running the Kingdom, and Flagg was a very bad man. We will have to speak more of him later, unfortunately, but we’ll let him go for now, and good riddance.

Sasha had broken Flagg’s power over Roland a little. Her own advice was good and practical, and it was much more kind and just than the magician’s. She never really liked Flagg-few in Delain did, and many shuddered at his very name-but her dislike was mild. Her feelings might have been much different if she had known how carefully Flagg watched her, and with what growing, poisonous hate.

Once Flagg really did set out to poison Sasha. This was after she asked Roland to pardon a pair of army deserters whom Flagg had wanted beheaded in the Plaza of the Needle. Deserters, he had argued, were a bad example. If one or two were allowed to get away without paying the full penalty, others

might try it. The only way to discourage them, he said, was to

show them the heads of those who had already tried it. Other

would-be deserters would look at those flyblown heads with

their staring eyes and think twice about the seriousness of their

service to the King.

Sasha, however, had discovered facts about the case from one

of her maids that Roland didn’t know. The mother of the older

boy had fallen gravely ill. There were three younger brothers

and two younger sisters in the family. All might have died in

the bitter cold of the Delain winter if the boy hadn’t left his

encampment, gone home, and chopped wood for his mother.

The younger boy had gone because he was the older’s best friend,

and his sworn blood brother. Without the younger boy, it might

have taken two weeks to chop enough wood to keep the family

through the winter. With both of them working at top speed,

it had taken only six days.

This was putting it in a different light. Roland had loved his own mother very much, and would gladly have died for her. He made inquiries and found out that Sasha had the right of the story. He also found out that the deserters had left only after a sadistic sergeant major had repeatedly refused to relay their re-quests for compassionate leave to their superior, and that as soon as four cords of wood had been chopped, they had gone back, although both had known they must be court-martialed and face the headsman’s axe.

Roland pardoned them. Flagg nodded, smiled, and said only: “Your will is Delain’s will, Sire.” Not for all the gold in the Four Kingdoms would he have allowed Roland to see the sick fury that rose in his heart when his will was balked. Roland’s pardon of the boys was greatly praised in Delain, because many of Roland’s subjects also knew the true facts and those who didn’t know them were quickly informed by the rest. Roland’s wise and compassionate pardon of the two was remembered when other, less humane decrees (which were, as a rule, also the ma-gician’s ideas) were imposed. All of this made no difference to

Flagg. He had wanted him killed, and Sasha had interfered. Why could Roland not have married another? He had known none of them, and cared for women not at all. Why not another? Well, it didn’t matter. Flagg smiled at the pardon, but he swore in his heart then that he would attend Sasha’s funeral.

On the night Roland signed the pardon, Flagg went to his gloomy basement laboratory. There he donned a heavy glove and took a deathwatch spider from a cage where he had kept her for twenty years, feeding her newborn baby mice. Each of the mice he fed the spider was poisoned and dying; Flagg did this to increase the potency of the spider’s own poison, which was already potent beyond belief. The spider was blood red and as big as a rat. Her bloated body quivered with venom; venom dripped from her stinger in clear drops that burned smoking holes in the top of Flagg’s worktable.

“Now die, my pretty, and kill a Queen,” Flagg whispered, and crushed the spider to death in his glove, which was made of a magical steel mesh which resisted the poison-yet still that night, when he went to bed, his hand was swelled and throbbing and red.

Poison from the spider’s crushed, twisted body gushed into the goblet. Flagg poured brandy over the deadly stuff, then stirred the two together. When he took the spoon from the glass, its bowl was twisted and misshapen. The Queen would take one sip and fall dying on the floor. Her death would be quick but extremely painful, Flagg thought with satisfaction.

Sasha was in the habit of taking a glass of brandy each night, because she often had trouble falling asleep. Flagg rang for a servant to come and take the drink to her.

Sasha never knew how close she came to death that night.

Moments after brewing the deadly drink, before the servant knocked, Flagg poured it down the drain in the center of his floor and stood listening to it hiss and bubble away into the pipe. His face was twisted with hate. When the hissing had died away, he flung the crystal goblet into the far corner with all his force. It shattered like a bomb.

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The servant knocked and was admitted.

Flagg pointed to where the shards glittered. “I’ve broken a goblet,” he said. “Clean it up. Use a broom, idiot. If you touch the pieces, you’ll regret it.”

e poured the poison down the drain at the last moment because he realized he might well be caught. If Roland had loved the young Queen just a little less, Flagg would have chanced it. But he was afraid that Roland, in his wounded fury at the loss of his wife, would never rest until he found the killer and saw his head on the spike at the very tip of the Needle. It was the one crime he would see avenged, no matter who had committed it. And would he find the murderer?

Flagg thought he might.

Hunting, after all, was the thing Roland did best.

So Sasha escaped-that time-protected by Flagg’s fear and her husband’s love. And in the meantime, Flagg still had the King’s ear in most matters.

Concerning the dollhouse, however-in that matter, you could say Sasha won, even though Flagg had by then succeeded in ridding himself of her.

Not long after Flagg made his disparaging comments about dollhouses and royal sissies, Roland crept into the dead Queen’s morning room unseen and watched his son at play. The King stood just inside the door, his brow deeply furrowed. He was thinking much harder than he was used to thinking, and

that meant the boulders were rolling around in his head and his nose was stuffy.

He saw that Peter was using the dollhouse to tell himself stories, to make believe, and that the stories he made up were not sissy stories at all. They were stories of blood and thunder and armies and dragons. They were, in other words, stories after the King’s own heart. He discovered in himself a wistful desire to join his son, to help him make up even better tales in which the dollhouse and all its fascinating contents and its make-believe family figured. Most of all, he saw that Peter was using Sasha’s dollhouse to keep Sasha alive in his heart, and Roland approved of this most of all, because he missed his wife sorely. Sometimes he was so lonely he almost cried. Kings, of course, do not cry . . . and if, on one or two occasions after Sasha had died, he awoke with the case on his pillow damp, what of that?

The King left the room as silently as he had come. Peter never saw him. Roland lay awake most of that night, thinking deeply about what he had seen, and although it was hard for him to endure Flagg’s disapproval, he saw him the next morning in a private audience, before his resolve could weaken, and told him he had thought the matter over carefully and decided Peter should be allowed to play with the dollhouse as long as he wished. He said he believed it was doing the boy no harm.

With that out, he settled back uneasily to wait for Flagg’s rebuttal. But no rebuttal came. Flagg only raised his eyebrows, -this Roland barely saw in the deep shadow of the hood Flagg always wore-and said, “Your will, Sire, is the will of the King-dom. “

Roland knew from the tone that Flagg thought his decision was a bad one, but the tone also told him Flagg would not dispute it further. He was deeply relieved to be let off so cheaply. Later that day, when Flagg suggested that the farmers of the Eastern Barony could stand higher taxes in spite of the drought that had killed most of their crops the year before, Roland agreed eagerly.

In truth, having the old fool (for so Flagg thought Roland to

be in his deeper thoughts) go against his wishes in the matter of the dollhouse seemed a very minor thing to the magician. The rise in taxes for the Eastern Barony was the important thing. And Flagg had a deeper secret, one which pleased him well. In the end he had succeeded in murdering Sasha, after all.

In those days, when a Queen or any woman of royal birth was taken to bed to deliver a child, a midwife was called in. The doctors were all men, and no man was allowed to be with a woman when she was about to have a child. The midwife who delivered Peter was Anna Crookbrows, of the Third South’ard Alley. She was called again when Sasha’s time with Thomas came around. Anna was past fifty at the time when Sasha’s second labor began, and a widow. She had one son of her own, and in his twentieth year he contracted the Shaking Disease, which always killed its victims in terrible pain after some years of suffering.

She loved this boy very much, and at last, after every other idea had proved useless, she went to Flagg. This had been ten years before, neither prince yet born and Roland himself still a royal bachelor. He received her in his dank basement rooms, which were near the dungeons-during their interview the uneasy woman could sometimes hear the lost screams of those who had been locked away from the sun’s light for years and years. And, she thought with a shudder, if the dungeons were near, then the torture chambers must also be near. Nor did Flagg’s apartment itself make her feel any easier. Strange designs were drawn on the floor in many colors of chalk. When she blinked, the designs seemed to change. In a cage hung from a long black manacle, a two-headed parrot cawed and sometimes talked to itself, one head speaking, the other head answering. Musty books

frowned down at her. Spiders spun in dark corners. From the laboratory came a mixture of strange chemical smells. Yet she stammered out her story somehow and then waited in an agony of suspense.

“I can cure your son,” he said finally.

Anna Crookbrows’s ugly face was transformed into something near beauty by her joy. “My Lord!” she gasped, and could think of no more, so she said it again. “Oh, my Lord!”

But in the shadow of his hood, Flagg’s white face remained distant and brooding, and she felt afraid again.

“What would you pay for such a miracle?” he asked.

“Anything,” she gasped, and meant it. “Oh my Lord Flagg, anything!”

“I ask for one favor,” he said. “Will you give it?”

“Gladly!”

“I don’t know what it is yet, but when the time comes, I shall. “

She had fallen on her knees before him, and now he bent toward her. His hood fell back, and his face was terrible indeed. It was the white face of a corpse with black holes for eyes.

“And if you refuse what I ask, woman . . .”

“I shall not refuse! Oh my Lord, I shall not! I shall not! I swear it on my dear husband’s name!”

“Then it is well. Bring your son to me tomorrow night, after dark.”

She led the poor boy in the next night. He trembled and shook, his head nodded foolishly, his eyes rolled. There was a slick of drool on his chin. Flagg gave her a dark, plum-colored potion in a beaker. “Have him drink this,” he said. “It will blister his mouth, but have him drink every drop. Then get the fool out of my sight.”

She murmured to him. The boy’s shaking increased for a moment as he tried to nod his head. He drank all of the liquid and then doubled over, screaming.

“Get him out,” Flagg said.

“Yes, get him out!” one of the parrot’s two heads cried.

“Get him out, no screaming allowed here!” the other head screamed.

She got him home, sure that Flagg had murdered him. But the next day the Shaking Disease had left her son completely, and he was well.

Years passed. When Sasha’s labor with Thomas began, Flagg called for her and whispered in her ear. They were alone in his deep rooms, but even so, it was better that such a dread command be whispered.

Anna Crookbrows’s face went deadly white, but she remembered Flagg’s words: If you refuse . . .

And would not the King have two children? She had only one. And if the King wanted to remarry and have even more, let him. In Delain, women were plentiful.

So she went to Sasha, and spoke encouragingly, and at a critical moment a little knife glittered in her hand. No one saw the one small cut she made. A moment later, Anna cried: “Push, my Queen! Push, for the baby comes!”

Sasha pushed. Thomas came from her as effortlessly as a boy zipping down a slide. But Sasha’s lifeblood gushed out upon the sheet. Ten minutes after Thomas came into the world, his mother was dead.

And so Flagg was not concerned about the piffling matter of the dollhouse. What mattered was that Roland was growing old, there was no meddling Queen to stand in his way, and now he had not one son to choose from but two. Peter was, of course, the elder, but that did not really matter. Peter could be gotten out of the way if time should prove him unsuitable for Flagg’s purposes. He was only a child, and could not defend himself.

I have told you that Roland never thought longer or harder on any matter during his entire reign than he did on this one question-whether or not Peter should be allowed access to Sasha’s dollhouse, cunningly crafted by the great Ellender. I have told you that the result of his thought was a decision that ran against Flagg’s wishes. I have also told you that Flagg considered this of little importance.

Was it? That you must decide for yourself, after you have heard me to the end.

Now let many long years pass, all in a twinkling—one of the great things about tales is how fast time may pass when not much of note is happening. Real life is never that way, and it is probably a good thing. Time only passes faster in histories, and what is a history except a grand sort of tale where passing centuries are substituted for passing years?

During those years, Flagg watched both boys carefully-he watched them over the aging King’s shoulder as they grew up, calculating which should be King when Roland was no more. It did not take him long to decide it should be Thomas, the younger. By the time Peter was seven, he knew he did not like the boy. When Peter was nine, Flagg made a strange and unpleasant discovery: he feared Peter, as well.

The boy had grown up strong and straight and handsome. His hair was dark, his eyes a dark blue that is common to people of the Western Barony. Sometimes, when Peter looked up quickly, his head cocked a certain way, he resembled his father. Otherwise, he was Sasha’s son almost entirely in his looks and ways. Unlike his short father with his bowlegged walk and his clumsy way of moving (Roland was graceful only when he was horsed), Peter was tall and lithe. He enjoyed the hunt and hunted well, but it was not his life. He also enjoyed his lessons-geography and history were his particular favorites.

His father was puzzled and often impatient with jokes; the point of most had to be explained to him, and that took away all the fun. What Roland liked was when the jesters pretended to slip on banana peels, or knocked their heads together, or when they staged pie fights in the Great Hall. Such things were about as far as Roland’s idea of good fun extended. Peter’s wit was

much quicker and more subtle, as Sasha’s had been, and his rollicking, boyish laughter often filled the palace, making the servants smile at each other approvingly.

While many boys in Peter’s position would have become too conscious of their own grand place in the scheme of things to play with anyone not of their own class, Peter became best friends with a boy named Ben Staad when both children were eight. Ben’s family was not royalty, and though Andrew Staad, Ben’s father, had some faint claim to the High Blood of the kingdom on his mother’s side, they could not even rightly be called no-bility. “Squire” was probably the kindest term one could have applied to Andy Staad, and “squire’s son” to his boy. Even so, the once-prosperous Staad family had fallen upon hard times, and while there could have been queerer choices for a Prince’s best friend, there couldn’t have been many.

They met at the annual Farmers’ Lawn Party when Peter was eight. The Lawn Party was a yearly ritual most Kings and Queens viewed as tiresome at best; they were apt to put in a token appearance, drink the quick traditional toast, and then be away after bidding the farmers enjoy themselves and thanking them for another fruitful year (this was also part of the ritual, even if the crops had been poor). If Roland had been that sort of King, Peter and Ben would never had gotten the chance to know each other. But, as you might have guessed, Roland loved the Farmers’ Lawn Party, looked forward to it each year, and usually stayed until the very end (and more than once was carried away drunk and snoring loudly).

As it happened, Peter and Ben were paired in the three-legged sack-race, and they won it . . . although it ended up being much closer than at first it seemed it would be. Leading by almost six lengths, they took a bad spill and Peter’s arm was cut.

“I’m sorry, my prince!” Ben cried. His face had gone pale, and he may have been visualizing the dungeons (and I know his mother and father, watching anxiously from the sidelines, were; if it weren’t for bad luck, Andy Staad was fond of growling, the

Staads would have no luck at all); more likely he was just sorry for the hurt he fancied he had caused, or was amazed to see that the blood of the future King was as red as his own.

“Don’t be a fool,” Peter said impatiently. “It was my fault, not yours. I was clumsy. Hurry and get up. They’re catching us.

The two boys, made into a single clumsy three-legged beast by the sack into which Peter’s right leg and Ben’s left one had been tightly tied, managed to get up and lurch on. Both had been badly winded by the fall, however, and their long lead had been cut to almost nothing. Approaching the finish line, where crowds of farmers (not to mention Roland, standing among them without the slightest feeling of awkwardness, or of being some-where he shouldn’t) were cheering deliriously, two huge, sweat-ing farm boys began to close in. That they would overtake Peter and Ben in the last ten yards of the race seemed almost inevitable.

“Faster, Peter!” Roland bellowed, swinging a huge mug of mead with such enthusiasm that he poured most of it onto his own head. In his excitement he never noticed. “Jackrabbit, son! Be a jackrabbit! Those clod-busters are almost up your butt and over your back!”

Ben’s mother began to moan, cursing the fate that had caused her son to be paired up with the prince.

“If they lose, he’ll have our Ben thrown into the deepest dun-geon in the castle,” she moaned.

“Hush, woman,” Andy said. “He’d not. He’s a good King.” He believed it, but he was still afraid. Staad luck was, after all, Staad luck.

Ben, meanwhile, had begun to giggle. He couldn’t believe he was doing it, but he was. “Be a jackrabbit, did he say?”

Peter also began to giggle. His legs ached terribly, blood was trickling down his right arm, and sweat was flooding his face, which was starting to turn an interesting plum color, but he was also unable to stop. “Yes, that’s what he said.”

“Then let’s hop!”

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They didn’t look much like jackrabbits as they crossed the finish line; they looked like a pair of strange crippled crows. It was really a miracle they didn’t fall, but somehow they didn’t. They managed three ungainly leaps. The third one took them across the finish line, where they collapsed, howling with laughter.

“Jackrabbit!” Ben yelled, pointing at Peter.

“Jackrabbit yourself!” Peter yelled, pointing back.

They slung their arms about each other, still laughing, and were carried on the shoulders of many strong farmers (Andrew Staad was one of them, and bearing the combined weight of his son and the prince was something he never forgot) to where Roland slipped blue ribbands over their necks. Then he kissed each of them roughly on the cheek and poured the remaining contents of his mug over their heads, to the wild cheers and huzzahs of the farmers. Never, even in the memory of the oldest gaffer there that day, had such an extraordinary race been run.

The two boys spent the rest of the day together and, it soon appeared, would be content to spend the rest of their lives together. Because even a boy of eight has certain duties (and if he is to be the King someday he has even more), the two of them could not be together all they wanted to be, but when they could be, they were.

Some sniffed at the friendship, and said it wasn’t right for the King in waiting to be friends with a boy who was little better than a common barony clod-buster. Most, however, looked upon it with approval; it was said more than once over deep cups in the meadhouses of Delain that Peter had gotten the best of both worlds-his mother’s brains and his father’s love of the common folk.

There was apparently no meanness in Peter. He never went through a period when he pulled the wings off flies or singed dogs’ tails to see them run. In fact, he intervened in the matter of a horse which was to be destroyed by Yosef, the King’s head groom . . . and it was when this tale made its way to Flagg that

the magician began to fear the King’s oldest son, and to think perhaps he did not have as long to put the boy out of the way as he had once thought. For in the affair of the horse with the broken leg, Peter had displayed courage and a depth of resolve which Flagg did not like at all.

,Peter was passing through the stableyard when he saw a horse tethered to the hitching rail just outside the main barn. The horse was holding one of its rear legs off the ground. As Peter watched, Yosef spat on his hands and picked up a heavy maul. What he meant to do was obvious. Peter was both frightened and appalled. He rushed over.

“Who told you to kill this horse?” he asked.

Yosef, a hardy and robust sixty, was a palace fixture. He was not apt to brook the interference of a snot-nosed brat easily, prince or no. He fixed Peter with a thunderous, heavy look that was meant to wilt the boy. Peter, then just nine, reddened, but did not wilt. He seemed to see a look in the horse’s mild brown eyes which said, You’re my only hope, whoever you are. Do what you can, please.

“My father, and his father before him, and his father before him,” Yosef said, seeing now that he was going to have to say something, like it or not. “That’s who told me to kill it. A horse with a broken leg is no good to any living thing, least of all to itself.” He raised the maul a little. “You see this hammer as a murder weapon, but when you’re older, you’ll see it for what it really is in cases such as these . . . a mercy. Now stand back, so you don’t get splashed.”

He raised the maul in both hands.

“Put it down,” Peter said.

Yosef was thunderstruck. He had never been interfered with in such a way.

“Here! Here! What are you a-saying?”

“You heard me. I said put that hammer down.” As he said these words Peter’s voice deepened. Yosef suddenly realized-really, really realized-that it was the future King standing here in this dusty stableyard, commanding him. If Peter had actually said as much-if he had stood there in the dust squeaking, Put that down, put it down, 1 said, I’m going to be King someday, King, do you hear, so you put that down!, Yosef would have laughed contemptuously, spat, and ended the broken-legged horse’s life with one hard swing of his deeply muscled arms. But Peter did not have to say any such thing; the command was clear in his voice and eyes.

“Your father shall hear of this, my princeling,” Yosef said.

“And when he hears it from you, it will be for the second time,” Peter replied. “I will let you go about your work with no further complaint, Lord High Groom, if I may put a single question to you which you answer yes.”

“Ask your question,” Yosef said. He was impressed with the boy, almost against his will. When he had told Yosef that he, Peter, would tell his father of the incident first, Yosef believed he meant what he said-the simple truth shone in the lad’s eyes. Also, he had never been called Lord High Groom before, and he rather liked it.

“Has the horse doctor seen this animal?” Peter asked.

Yosef was thunderstruck. “That is your question? That?”

“Yes. “

“Dear creeping gods, no!” he cried, and, seeing Peter flinch, he lowered his voice, squatted before the boy, and attempted to explain. “A horse with a broken leg is a goner, y’Highness. Always a goner. Leg never mends right. There’s apt to be blood poisoning. Turrible pain for the horse. Turrible pain. In the end, its poor heart is apt to burst, or it takes a brain fever and goes mad. Now do you understand what I meant when I said this hammer was mercy rather than murder?”

Peter thought long and gravely, with his head down. Yosef was silent, squatting before him in an almost unconscious posture of deference, allowing him the full courtesy of time.

Peter raised his head and asked: “You say everyone says this?”

“Everyone, y’Highness. Why, my father-“

“Then we’ll see if the horse doctor says it, too.”

“Oh . . . PAH the groom bellowed, and threw the hammer all the way across the courtyard. It sailed into a pigpen and struck head down in the mud. The pigs grunted and squealed and cursed him in their piggy Latin. Yosef, like Flagg, was not used to being balked, and took no notice of them.

He got up and stalked away. Peter watched him, troubled, sure that he must be in the wrong and knowing he was apt to face a severe whipping for this little piece of work. Then, halfway across the yard, the head groom turned, and a reluctant, grim little smile hit across his face like a single sunray on a gray morning.

“Go get your horse doctor,” he said. “Get him yourself, son. You’ll find him in his animal surgery at the far end of Third East’rd Alley, I reckon. I’ll give you twenty minutes. If you’re not back with him by then, I’m putting my maul into yon horse’s brains, prince or no prince.”

“Yes, Lord Head Groom!” Peter yelled. “Thank you!” He raced away.

When he returned with the young horse doctor, puffing and out of breath, Peter was sure that the horse must be dead; the sun told him three times twenty minutes had passed. But Yosef, curious, had waited.

Horse doctoring and veterinary medicine were then very new things in Delain, and this young man was only the third or fourth who had practiced the trade, so Yosef’s look of sour distrust was far from surprising. Nor had the horse doctor been happy to be dragged away from his surgery by the sweating, wide-eyed prince, but he became less irritated now that he had a patient. He knelt before the horse and felt the broken leg gently

with his hands, humming through his nose as he did so. The horse shifted once as something he did pained her. “Be steady, nag,” the horse doctor said calmly, “be oh so steady.” The horse quieted. Peter watched all this in an agony of suspense. Yosef watched with his maul leaning nearby and his arms folded across his chest. His opinion of the horse doctor had gone up a little. The fellow was young, but his hands moved with gentle knowl-edge.

At last the horse doctor nodded and stood up, dusting stable-yard grime from his hands.

“Well?” Peter asked anxiously.

“Kill her,” the horse doctor said briskly to Yosef, ignoring Peter altogether.

Yosef picked up his maul at once, for he had expected no other conclusion to the affair. But he found no satisfaction in being proved correct; the stricken look on the young boy’s face went straight to his heart.

“Wait!” Peter cried, and although his small face was full of distress, that deepness was in his voice again, making him sound much, much older than his years.

The horse doctor looked at him, startled.

“You mean she’ll die of blood poisoning?” Peter asked.

“What?” the horse doctor asked, eyeing Peter with a new care.

“She’ll die of blood poisoning if she’s allowed to live? Or her heart will burst? Or she will run mad?”

The horse doctor was clearly puzzled. “What are you talking about? Blood poisoning? There is no blood poisoning here. The break is healing quite cleanly, in fact.” He looked at Yosef with some disdain. “I have heard such stories as these before. There is no truth in them.”

“If you think not, you have much to learn, my young friend, ” Yosef said.

Peter ignored this. It was now his turn to be bewildered. He asked the young horse doctor, “Why do you tell the head groom to kill a horse which may heal?”

“Your Highness,” the horse doctor said briskly, “this horse would need to be poulticed every day and every night for a month or more to keep any infection from settling in. The effort might be made, but to what end? The horse would always limp. A horse that limps can’t work. A horse that limps can’t run for idlers to bet on. A horse that limps can only eat and eat and never earn its provender. Therefore, it should be killed.”

He smiled, satisfied. He had proved his case.

Then, as Yosef started forward with his hammer again, Peter said; “I’ll put on the poultices. If a day should come when I can’t, then Ben Staad will. And she’ll be good because she’ll be my horse, and I’ll ride her even if she limps so badly she makes me seasick.”

Yosef burst out laughing and clapped the boy on his back so hard his teeth rattled. “Your heart is kind as well as brave, my boy, but lads promise quick and regret at leisure. You’d not be true to it, I reckon.”

Peter looked at him calmly. “I mean what I say.”

Yosef stopped laughing all at once. He looked at Peter closely and saw that the boy did indeed mean it . . . or at least thought he did. There was no doubt in his face.

“Well! I can’t tarry here all day,” the horse doctor said, adopting his former brisk and self-important manner. “I’ve given you my diagnosis. My bill will be presented to the Treasury in due course . . . . Perhaps you’ll pay it out of your allowance, Highness. In any case, what you decide to do is not my business. Good day.”

Peter and the head groom watched him walk out of the stableyard, trailing a long afternoon shadow at his heels.

“He’s full of dung,” Yosef said when the horse doctor was out the gate, beyond earshot, and thus unable to contradict his words. “Mark me, y’Highness, and save y’self a lot o’ grief. There never was a horse what busted a leg and didn’t get blood poisoning. It’s God’s way.”

“I’ll want to talk to my father about this,” Peter said.

“And so I think you must,” Yosef said heavily . . . but as Peter trudged away, he smiled. He thought the boy had done right well for himself. His father would be honor-bound to see the boy was whipped for interfering with his elders, but the head groom knew that Roland set a great store by both of his sons in his old age-Peter perhaps a bit more than Thomas-and he believed that the boy would get his horse. Of course, he would also get a heartbreak when the horse died, but, as the horse doctor had quite rightly said, that was not his business. He knew about the training of horses; the training of princes was best left in other hands.

Peter was whipped for interfering in the head groom’s affairs, and although it was no solace to his stinging bottom, Peter’s mind understood that his father had afforded him great honor by administering the whipping himself, instead of handing Peter over to an underling who might have tried to curry favor by making it easy on the boy.

Peter could not sleep on his back for three days and was not able to eat sitting down for nearly a week, but the head groom was also right about the horse-Roland allowed Peter to keep her.

“It won’t take up your time for long, Peter,” Roland advised him. “If Yosef says it will die, it will die.” Roland’s face was a bit pale and his old hands were trembling. The beating had pained him more than it had pained Peter, who really was his favor-ite . . . although Roland foolishly fancied no one knew this but himself.

“I don’t know,” Peter said. “I thought that horse-doctoring fellow knew what he was talking about.”

It turned out that the horse-doctoring fellow had. The horse did not take blood poisoning, and it did not die, and in the end its limp was so slight that even Yosef was forced to admit it was hardly noticeable. “At least, when she’s fresh,” he amended. Peter was more than just faithful about putting on the poultices; he was nearly religious. He changed old for new three times a

day and did it a fourth time before he went to bed. Ben Staad did stand in for Peter from time to time, but those times were few. Peter named the horse Peony, and they were great friends ever after.

Flagg had most assuredly been right about one thing on the day he advised Roland against letting Peter play with the dollhouse: servants were everywhere, they see everything, and their tongues wag. Several servants had witnessed the scene in the stableyard, but if every servant who later claimed to have been there really had been, there would have been a mob of them crowded around the edges of the stableyard that hot summer day. That had, of course, not been the case, but the fact that so many of them found the event worth lying about was a sign that Peter was regarded as an interesting figure indeed. They talked about it so much that it became something of a nine days’ wonder in Delain. Yosef also talked; so, for that matter, did the young horse doctor. Everything that they said spoke well for the young prince-Yosef’s word in particular carried much weight, because he was greatly respected. He began to call Peter “the young King,” something he had never done before.

“I believe God spared the nag because the young King stood up for her so brave-like, ” he said. “And he worked at them poultices like a slave. Brave, he is; he’s got the heart of a dragon. He’ll make a King someday, all right. Ai! You should have heard his voice when he told me to hold the maul!”

It was a great story, all right, and Yosef drank on it for the next seven years-until Peter was arrested for a hideous crime, judged guilty, and sentenced to imprisonment in the cell atop the Needle for the rest of his life

.Perhaps you are wondering what Thomas was like, and some of you may already be casting him in a villain’s part,

as a willing co-schemer in Flagg’s plot to snatch the crown away from its rightful owner.

That was not really the case at all, although to some it always seemed so, and of course Thomas did play a part. He did not seem, I admit, to be a really good boy-at least, not at first glance. He was surely not a good boy in the way that Peter was a good boy, but no brother would have looked really good beside Peter, and Thomas knew it well by the time he was four-that was the year after the famous sack-race, and the one in which the famous stableyard incident took place. Peter rarely lied and never cheated. Peter was smart and kind, tall and handsome. He looked like their mother, who had been so deeply loved by the King and the people of Delain.

How could Thomas compare with goodness like that? A simple question with a simple answer. He couldn’t.

Unlike Peter, Thomas was the spitting image of his father. This pleased the old man a little, but it didn’t give him the pleasure most men feel when they have a son who carries the clear stamp of their features. Looking at Thomas was too much like looking into a sly mirror. He knew that Thomas’s fine blond hair would gray early and then begin to fall out; Thomas would be bald by the time he was forty. He knew that Thomas would never be tall, and if he had his father’s appetite for beer and mead, he would be carrying a big belly before him by the time he was twenty-five. Already his toes had begun to turn in, and Roland guessed Thomas would walk with his own bowlegged swagger.

Thomas was not exactly a good boy, but you must not think that made him a bad boy. He was sometimes a sad boy, often a confused boy (he took after his father in another way, as well, hard thinking made his nose stuffy and his head feel like boulders were rolling around inside), and often a jealous boy, but he wasn’t a bad boy.

Of whom was he jealous? Why, of his brother, of course. He was jealous of Peter. It wasn’t enough that Peter would be King, Oh no! It wasn’t enough that their father liked Peter best, or

that the servants liked Peter best, or that their teachers liked Peter best because he was always ready at lessons and didn’t need to be coaxed. It wasn’t enough that everyone liked Peter best, or that Peter had a best friend. There was one more thing.

When anyone looked at Thomas, his father the King most of all, Thomas thought he knew they were thinking: We loved your mother and you killed her in your coming. And what did we get out of the pain and death you caused her? A dull little boy with a round face that has hardly any chin, a dull little boy who couldn’t make all fifteen of the Great Letters until he was eight. Your brother Peter was able to make them all when he was six. What did we get? Not much. Why did you come, Thomas? What good are you? Throne insurance? Is that all you are? Throne insurance in case Peter the Precious should fall off his limping nag and crack his head open? Is that all? Well, we don’t want you. None of us want you. None of us want you . . . .

The part Thomas played in his brother’s imprisonment was dishonorable, but even so he was not a really bad boy. I believe this, and hope that in time you will come to believe it, too.

Once, as a boy of seven, Thomas spent a whole day laboring in his room, carving his father a model sailboat. He did it with no way of knowing that Peter had covered himself with glory that day on the archery range, with his father in attendance. Peter was not, ordinarily, much of a bowman-in that area, at least, Thomas would turn out to be far superior to his older brother-but on that one day, Peter had shot the junior course of targets like one inspired. Thomas was a sad boy, a confused boy, and he was often an unlucky boy.

Thomas had thought of the boat because sometimes, on Sun-day afternoons, his father liked to go out to the moat which surrounded the palace and float a variety of model boats. Such

simple pleasures made Roland extremely happy, and Thomas had never forgotten one day when his father had taken him and just him-along. In those days, his father had an advisor whose only job was to show Roland how to make paper boats, and the King had conceived a great enthusiasm for them. On this day, a hoary old carp had risen out of the mucky water and swallowed one of Roland’s paper boats whole. Roland had laughed like a boy and declared it was better than a tale about a sea monster. He hugged Thomas very tight as he said so. Thomas never forgot that day-the bright sunshine, the damp, slightly moldy odor of the moat water, the warmth of his father’s arms, the scratchiness of his beard.

So, feeling particularly lonely one day, he had hit on the idea of making his father a sailboat. It would not be a really great job, and Thomas knew it-he was almost as clumsy with his hands as he was at memorizing his lessons. But he also knew that his father could have any craftsman in Delain-even the great Ellender himself, who was now almost completely blind, make him boats if he so desired. The crucial difference, Thomas thought, would be that Roland’s own son had taken a whole day to carve him a boat for his Sunday pleasure.

Thomas sat patiently by his window, urging the boat out of a block of wood. He used a sharp knife, nicked himself times without number, and cut himself quite badly once. Yet he kept on, aching hands or no. As he worked he daydreamed of how he and his father would go out on Sunday afternoon and sail the boat, just the two of them all alone, because Peter would be riding Peony in the woods or off playing with Ben. And he wouldn’t even mind if that same carp came up and ate his wooden boat, because then his father would laugh and hug him and say it was better than a story of sea monsters eating Anduan clipper ships whole.

But when he got to the King’s chamber Peter was there and Thomas had to wait for nearly half an hour with the boat hidden behind his back while his father extolled Peter’s bowmanship.

Thomas could see that Peter was uncomfortable under the un-ceasing barrage of praise. He could also see that Peter knew Thomas wanted to talk to their father, and that Peter kept trying to tell their father so. It didn’t matter, none of it mattered. Thomas hated him anyway.

At last Peter was allowed to escape. Thomas approached his father, who looked at him kindly enough now that Peter was gone. “I made you something, Dad,” he said, suddenly shy. He held the boat behind his back with hands that were suddenly wet and clammy with sweat.

“Did you now, Tommy?” Roland said. “Why, that was kind, wasn’t it?”

“Very kind, Sire,” said Flagg, who happened to be idling nearby. He spoke casually but watched Thomas with bright interest.

“What is it, lad? Show me!”

“I remembered how much you liked to have a boat or two out on the moat Sunday afternoons, Dad, and . . .” He wanted desperately to say, and I wanted you to take me out with you again sometime, so I made this, but he found he could not utter such a thing. “. . . and so I made you a boat …. I spent a whole day . . . cut myself . . . and . . . and . . .” Sitting in his win-dow seat, carving the boat, Thomas had made up a long, elo-quent speech which he would utter before bringing the boat out from behind his back and presenting it with a flourish to his father, but now he could hardly remember a word of it, and what he could remember didn’t seem to make any sense.

Horribly tongue-tied, he took the sailboat with its awkward flapping sail out from behind his back and gave it to Roland. The King turned it over in his big, short-fingered hands. Thomas stood and watched him, totally unaware that he had forgotten to breathe.

At last Roland looked up. “Very nice, Very nice, Tommy. Canoe, isn’t it?”

“Sailboat.” Don’t you see the sail? he wanted to cry. It took me

an hour alone just to tie the knots, and it isn’t my fault one of them came loose so it flaps!

The King fingered the striped sail, which Thomas had cut from a pillowcase.

“So it is . . . of course it is. At first I thought it was a canoe and this was some Oranian girl’s washing.” He tipped a wink at Flagg, who smiled vaguely at the air and said nothing. Thomas suddenly felt he might vomit quite soon.

Roland looked at his son more seriously, and beckoned for him to come close. Timidly, hoping for the best, Thomas did so.

“It’s a good boat, Tommy. Sturdy, like yourself, a bit clumsy like yourself, but good-like yourself. And if you want to give me a really fine present, work hard in your own bowmanship classes so you can take a first-class medal as Pete did today.”

Thomas had taken a first in the lower-circle bowmanship courses the year before, but his father seemed to have forgotten this in his joy over Peter’s accomplishment. Thomas did not remind him; he merely stood there, looking at the boat in his father’s big hands. His cheeks and forehead had flushed to the color of old brick.

“When it was at last down to just two boys-Peter and Lord Towson’s son-the instructor decreed they should draw back another forty koner. Towson’s boy looked downcast, but Peter just walked to the mark and nocked an arrow. I saw the look in his eyes, and I said to myself `He’s won! By all the gods that are, he hasn’t even fired an arrow yet and he’s won!’ And so he had! I tell you, Tommy, you should have been there! You should have . . . “

The King prattled on, putting aside the boat Thomas had labored a whole day to make, with barely a second look. Thomas stood and listened, smiling mechanically, that dull, bricklike flush never leaving his face. His father would never bother to take the sailboat he had carved out to the moat-why should he? The

sailboat was as pukey as Thomas felt. Peter could probably carve a better one blindfolded, and in half the time. It would look better to their father, at least.

A miserable eternity later, Thomas was allowed to escape.

“I believe the boy worked very hard on that boat,” Flagg remarked carelessly.

“Yes, I suppose he did,” Roland said. “Wretched-looking thing, isn’t it? Looks a little like a dog turd with a handkerchief sticking out of it.” And like something I would have made when I was his age, he added in his own mind.

Thomas could not hear thoughts . . . but a hellish trick of acoustics brought Roland’s words to him just as he left the Great Hall. Suddenly the horrible green pressure in his stomach was a thousand times worse. He ran to his bedroom and was sick in a basin.

The next day, while idling behind the outer kitchens, Thomas spied a half-crippled old dog foraging for garbage. He seized a rock and threw it. The stone flew to the mark. The dog yipped and fell down, badly hurt. Thomas knew his brother, although five years older, could not have made such a shot at half the distance-but that was a cold satisfaction, because he also knew that Pete never would have thrown a rock at a poor, hungry dog in the first place, especially one as old and decrepit as this one obviously was.

For a moment, compassion filled Thomas’s heart and his eyes filled with tears. Then, for no reason at all, he thought of his father saying, Looks a little like a dog turd with a handkerchief sticking out of it. He gathered up a handful of rocks, and went over to where the dog lay on its side, dazed and bleeding from one ear. Part of him wanted to let the dog alone, or perhaps heal it as Peter had healed Peony-to make it his very own dog and love it forever. But part of him wanted to hurt it, as if hurting the dog would ease some of his own hurt. He stood above it, undecided, and then a terrible thought came to him:

Suppose that dog was Peter?

That decided the case. Thomas stood over the old dog and threw stones at it until it was dead. No one saw him, but if someone had, he or she would have thought: There is a boy who is bad . . . bad, and perhaps even evil. But the person who saw only the cruel murder of that dog would not have seen what happened the day before-would not have seen Thomas throwing up into a basin and crying bitterly as he did it. He was often a confused boy, often a sadly unlucky boy, but I stick to what I said-he was never a bad boy, not really.

I also said that no one saw the stoning of the mongrel dog behind the outer kitchens, but that was not quite true. Flagg saw it that night, in his magic crystal. He saw it . . . and was well pleased by it.

Roland . . . Sasha . . . Peter . . . Thomas. Now there is only one more we must speak of, isn’t there? Now there is only the shadowy fifth. The time has come to speak of Flagg, as dreadful as that may be.

Sometimes the people of Delain called him Flagg the Hooded; sometimes simply the dark man-for, in spite of his white corpse’s face, he was a dark man indeed. They called him well preserved, but they used the term in a way that was uneasy rather than complimentary. He had come to Delain from Garlan in the time of Roland’s grandfather. In those days he had appeared to be a thin and stern-faced man of about forty. Now, in the closing years of Roland’s reign, he appeared to be a thin and stern-faced man of about fifty. Yet it had not been ten years, or even twenty, between then and now-it had been seventy-six years in all. Babies who had been sucking toothlessly at their mother’s breasts when Flagg first came to Delain had grown up, married, had children, grown old, and died toothlessly in their beds or their

chimney corners. But in all that time, Flagg seemed to have aged only ten years. It was magic, they whispered, and of course it was good to have a magician at court, a real magician and not just a stage conjurer who knew how to palm coins or hide a sleeping dove up his sleeve. Yet in their hearts, they knew there was nothing good about Flagg. When the people of Delain saw him coming, with his eyes peeking redly out from his hood, they quickly found business on the far side of the street.

Did he really come from Garlan, with its far vistas and its purple dreaming mountains? I do not know. It was and is a magical land where carpets sometimes fly, and where holy men sometimes pipe ropes up from wicker baskets, climb them, and disappear at the tops, never to be seen again. A great many seekers of knowledge from more civilized lands like Delain and Andua have gone to Garlan. Most disappear as completely and as permanently as those strange mystics who climb the floating ropes. Those who do return don’t always come back changed for the better. Yes, Flagg might well have come to Delain from Garlan, but if he did, it was not in the reign of Roland’s grandfather but much, much earlier.

He had, in fact, come to Delain often. He came under a different name each time, but always with the same load of woe and misery and death. This time he was Flagg. The time before he had been known as Bill Hinch, and he had been the King’s Lord High Executioner. Although that time was two hundred and fifty years past, his was a name mothers still used to frighten their children when they were bad. “If you don’t shut up that squalling, I reckon Bill Hinch will come and take you away!” they said. Serving as Lord High Executioner under three of the bloodiest Kings in Delain’s long history, Bill Hinch had made an end to hundreds-thousands, some said-of prisoners with his heavy axe.

The time before that, four hundred years before the time of Roland and his sons, he came as a singer named Browson, who

became a close advisor to the King and a Queen. Browson disappeared like smoke after drumming up a great and bloody war between Delain and Andua.

The time before that . . .

Ah, but why go on? I’m not sure I could if I wanted to. When times are long enough, even the storytellers forget the tales. Flagg always showed up with a different face and a different bag of tricks, but two things about him were always the same. He always came hooded, a man who seemed almost to have no face, and he never came as a King himself, but always as the whisperer in the shadows, the man who poured poison into the porches of Kings’ ears.

Who was he, really, this dark man?

I do not know.

Where did he wander between visits to Delain?

I do not know that, either.

Was he never suspected?

Yes, by a few-by historians and spinners of tales like me, mostly. They suspected that the man who now called himself Flagg had been in Delain before, and never to any good purpose. But they were afraid to speak. A man who could live among them for seventy-six years and appear to age only ten was obviously a magician; a man who had lived for ten times as long, perhaps longer than that . . . such a man might be the devil himself.

What did he want? That question I think I can answer.

He wanted what evil men always want: to have power and use that power to make mischief. Being a King did not interest him because the heads of Kings all too often found their way to spikes on castle walls when things went wrong. But the advisors to Kings . . . the spinners in the shadows . . . such people usually melted away like evening shadows at dawning as soon as the headsman’s axe started to fall. Flagg was a sickness, a fever looking for a cool brow to heat up. He hooded his actions just as he hooded his face. And when the great trouble came-as it

always did after a span of years-Flagg always disappeared like shadows at dawn.

Later, when the carnage was over and the fever had passed, when the rebuilding was complete and there was again something worth destroying, Flagg would appear once more.

This time, Flagg had found the Kingdom of Delain in exasperatingly healthy condition. Landry, Roland’s grandfather, was a drunken old fool, easy to influence and twist, but a heart attack had taken him too soon. Flagg knew by then that Lita, Roland’s mother, was the last person he wanted holding the scepter. She was ugly but good-hearted and strong-willed. Such a Queen was not a good growth medium for Flagg’s brand of insanity.

If he had come earlier in Landry’s reign, there would have been time to put Lita out of the way, as he expected to put Peter out of the way. But he’d had only six years, and that was not long enough.

Still, she had accepted him as an advisor, and that was something. She did not like him much but she accepted him-mostly because he could tell wonderful fortunes with cards. Lita loved hearing bits of gossip and scandal about those in her court and her Cabinet, and the gossip and scandal were doubly good because she got to hear not only what had happened but what would happen. It was hard to rid yourself of such an amusing diversion, even when you sensed that a person able to do such tricks might be dangerous. Flagg never told the Queen any of the darker news he sometimes saw in the cards. She wanted to know who had taken a lover or who had had words with his wife or her husband. She did not want to know about dark cabals and murderous plans. What she wanted from the cards was relatively innocent.

During the long, long reign of Lita, Flagg was chagrined to find his main accomplishment was to be not turned out. He was able to maintain a foothold but to do little more than that. Oh, there were a few bright spots-the encouragement of bad blood between two powerful squires in the Southern Barony and the discrediting of a doctor who had found a cure for some blood infections (Flagg wanted no cures in the Kingdom that were not magical-which is to say, given or withheld at his own whim) were examples of Flagg’s work during that period. It was all pretty small change.

Under Roland-poor bowlegged, insecure Roland-things marched more quickly toward Flagg’s goal. Because he did have a goal, you know, in his fuzzy, malevolent sort of way, and this time it was grand indeed. He planned nothing more nor less than the complete overthrow of the monarchy-a bloody revolt that would plunge Delain into a thousand years of darkness and anarchy.

Give or take a year or two, of course.

In Peter’s cool gaze he saw the very possible derailment of all his plans and careful work. More and more Flagg came to believe that getting rid of Peter was a necessity. Flagg has overstayed in Delain this time and he knew it. The muttering had begun. The work so well begun under Roland-the steady rises in taxes, the midnight searches of small farmers’ barns and silage sheds for unreported crops and foodstuffs, the arming of the Home Guards-must continue to its end under Thomas. He did not have time to wait through the reign of Peter as he had through that of his grandmother.

Peter might not even wait for the mutterings of the people to come to his ears; Peter’s first command as King might well be

that Flagg should be sent eastward out of the Kingdom and forbidden ever to come again, on pain of death. Flagg might murder an advisor before he could give the young King such advice, but the hell of it was, Peter would need no advisor. He would advise himself-and when Flagg saw the cool, unafraid way the boy, now fifteen and very tall, looked at him, he thought that Peter might already have given himself that advice.

The boy liked to read, and he liked history, and in the last two years, as his father grew steadily grayer and frailer, he had been asking a lot of questions of his father’s other advisors, and of some of his teachers. Many of these questions-too many had to do either with Flagg or with roads which would lead to Flagg if followed far enough.

That the boy was asking such questions at fourteen and fifteen was bad. That he was getting comparatively honest answers from such timid, watchful men as the Kingdom’s historians and Roland’s advisors was much worse. It meant that, in the minds of these people, Peter was already almost King-and that they were glad. They welcomed him and rejoiced in him, because he would be an intellectual, like them. And they also welcomed him because, unlike them, he was a brave boy who might well grow into a lionhearted King whose tale would be the stuff of legends. In him, they saw again the coming of the White, that ancient, resilient, yet humble force that has redeemed humankind again and again and again.

He had to be put out of the way. Had to be.

Flagg told himself this each night when he retired in the blackness of his inner chambers, and it was his first thought when he awoke in that blackness the next morning.

He must be put out of the way, the boy must be put out of the way.

But it was harder than it seemed. Roland loved aid would have died for either of his sons, but he loved Peter with a particular fierceness. Smothering the boy in his cradle, making it look as if the Baby Death had taken him, would have once perhaps been possible, but Peter was now a healthy teen-ager.

Any accident would be examined with all the raging scrutiny of Roland’s grief, and Flagg had thought more than once that the final irony might be this: Suppose Peter really did die an accidental death, and he, Flagg, was somehow blamed for it? A small miscalculation while shinnying up a drainpipe . . . a slip while crawling around on a stable roof playing Dare You with his friend Staad . . . a tumble from his horse. And what would the result be? Might not Roland, wild in his grief and growing senile and confused in his mind, see willful murder in what was really an accident? And might his eye not turn on Flagg? Of course. His eye would turn to Flagg before it turned to anyone else. Roland’s mother had mistrusted him, and he knew that, deep down, Roland mistrusted him as well. He had been able to hold that mistrust in check with mingled fear and fascination, but Flagg knew that if Roland ever had reason to think Flagg had caused, or even played a part in, the death of his son

Flagg could actually imagine situations where he might have to interfere in Peter’s behalf to keep the boy safe. It was damnable. Damnable!

He must be put out of the way. Must be put out of the way! Must!

As the days and weeks and months passed, the drumbeat of this thought in Flagg’s head grew ever more urgent. Every day Roland grew older and weaker; every day Peter grew older and wiser and thus a more dangerous opponent. What was to be done?

Flagg’s thoughts turned and turned and turned on this. He grew morose and irritable. Servants, especially Peter’s butler, Brandon, and Brandon’s son, Dennis, gave him a wide berth, and spoke to each other in whispers of the terrible smells that sometimes came from his laboratory late at night. Dennis in particular, who would someday take ,the place of his good old da’ as Peter’s butler, was terrified of Flagg, and once asked his father if he might say a word about the magician. “To make him safe, is all I’m thinking,” Dennis said.

“Not a word,” Brandon said, and fixed Dennis, who was only

a boy himself, with a forbidding look. “Not a word will you say. The man’s dangerous.”

“Then is that not all the more reason-?” Dennis began timidly.

“A dullard may mistake the rattle of a Biter-Snake for the sound of pebbles in a hollow gourd and put out his hand to touch it,” Brandon said, “but our prince is no dullard, Dennis. Now fetch me another glass of bundle-gin, and say no more on’t. “

So Dennis did not speak of it to Peter, but his love of his young master and his fear of the King’s hooded advisor both grew after that short exchange. Whenever he saw Flagg sweeping up one of the corridors of the castle in his long hooded robe he would draw aside, trembling, thinking: Biter-Snake! Biter-Snake! Watch for him, Peter! And listen for him!

Then, one night when Peter was sixteen, just as Flagg had begun to believe that there really might not be any way to put an end to the boy without unacceptable risk to himself, an answer came. That was a wild night. A terrible autumn storm raged and shrieked around the castle, and the streets of Delain were empty as people sought shelter from the sheets of chilly rain and the battering wind.

Roland had taken a cold in the damp. He took cold more and more easily these days, and Flagg’s medicines, potent as they were, were losing their power to cure him. One of these colds perhaps even the one he was hacking and wheezing with now would eventually deepen into the Wet Lung Disease, and that would kill him. Magic medicines were not like doctors’ medicines, and Flagg knew that one of the reasons the potions he gave the old King were now so slow to work, was that he, Flagg, no longer really wanted them to work. The only reason he was keeping Roland alive was that he feared Peter.

I wish you were dead, old man, Flagg thought with childish anger

as he sat before a guttering candle, listening to the wind shriek

without and his two-headed parrot mutter sleepily to itself within.

For a row of pins-a very short row at that-I’d kill you myself for

all the trouble you and your stupid wife and your elder son have caused me. The joy of killing you would almost be worth the ruin of my plans. The joy of killing you

Suddenly he froze, sitting upright, staring off into the darkness of his underground rooms, where the shadows moved uneasily. His eyes glittered silver. An idea blazed in his mind like a torch.

The candle flared a brilliant green and then went out.

“Death!” one of the parrot’s two heads shrieked in the darkness. {insert cockatoo image on page55}

“Murder!” shrieked the other.

And in that blackness, unseen by anyone, Flagg began to laugh.

Of all the weapons ever used to commit regicide

-the murder of a King-none has been as frequently used as poison. And no one has greater knowledge of poisons than a magician.

Flagg, one of the greatest magicians who ever lived, knew all the poisons that we know-arsenic; strychnine; the curare, which steals inward, paralyzing all the muscles and the heart last;

nicotine; belladonna; nightshade; toadstool. He knew the poison venoms of a hundred snakes and spiders; the clear distillation of the clanah lily which smells like honey but kills its victims in screaming torments; Deadly Clawfoot which grows in the deep-est shadows of the Dismal Swamp. Flagg did not know just dozens of poisons but dozens of dozens, each worse than the last. They were all neatly ranked on the shelves of an inner room where no servant ever went. They were in beakers, in phials, in little envelopes. Each deadly item was neatly marked. This was Flagg’s chapel of screams-in-waiting-agony’s antechamber, foyer of fevers, dressing room for death. Flagg visited it often when he felt out of sorts and wanted to cheer himself up. In this devil’s marketplace waited all those things that humans, who are made of flesh and are so weak, dread: hammering headaches, screaming stomach cramps, detonations of diarrhea, vomiting, collapsing blood vessels, paralysis of the heart, exploding eyeballs, swelling, blackening tongues, madness.

But the worst poison of all Flagg kept separate from even these. In his study there was a desk. Every drawer of this desk was locked . . . but one was triple-locked. In it was a teak box, carved all over with magical symbols . . . runes and such. The lock on this box was unique. Its plate seemed to be a dull orange steel, but very close inspection showed it was really some sort of vegetable matter. It was, in fact, a kleffa carrot, and once a week Flagg watered this living lock with a tiny spray bottle. The kleffa carrot also seemed to have some dull species of intelligence. If anyone tried to jimmy the kleffa lock open, or even if the wrong someone tried to use the right key, the lock would scream. Inside this box was a smaller box, which opened with a key Flagg wore always around his neck.

Inside this second box was a packet. Inside the packet was a small quantity of green sand. Pretty, you would have said, but nothing spectacular. Nothing to write home to Mother about. Yet this green sand was one of the deadliest poisons in all the worlds, so deadly that even Flagg was afraid of it. It came from

the desert of Grenh. This huge poisoned waste lay even beyond Garlan, and was a land unknown in Delain. Grenh could be approached only on a day when the wind was blowing the other way, because a single breath of the fumes which came from the desert of Grenh would cause death.

Not instant death. That was not the way the poison worked. For a day or two-perhaps even three-the person who breathed the poison fumes (or even worse, swallowed the grains of sand) would feel fine-perhaps better than ever before in his life. Then, suddenly, his lungs would grow red-hot, his skin would begin to smoke, and his body would shrivel like the body of a mummy. Then he would drop dead, often with his hair on fire. Someone who breathed or swallowed this deadly stuff would burn from the inside out.

This was Dragon Sand, and there was no antidote, no cure. What fun.

On that wild, rainy night, Flagg determine to give a bit of Dragon Sand to Roland in a glass of wine. It had become Peter’s custom to take his father a glass of wine each night, shortly before Roland turned in. Everyone in the palace knew it, and commented on what a loyal son Peter was. Roland enjoyed his son’s company as much as the wine he brought, Flagg thought, but a certain maiden had caught Peter’s eye and he rarely stayed longer than half an hour with his father these days.

If Flagg came one night after Peter had left, Flagg did not think the old man would turn down a second glass of wine.

A very special glass of wine.

A hot vintage, my Lord, Flagg thought, a grin dawning on his narrow face. A hot vintage indeed, and why not? The vineyard was right next door to hell, I think, and when this stuff starts working in your guts, you’ll think hell is where you are.

Flagg threw back his head and began to laugh.

Once his plan was laid-a plan that would rid him of both Roland and Peter forever-Flagg wasted no time. He first used all his wizardry to make the King well again. He was delighted to find that his magic potions worked better than they had for a long, long time. It was another irony. He earnestly wanted to make Roland better, so the potions worked. But he wanted to make the King better so he could kill him and make sure everyone knew it was murder. It was really quite funny, when you stopped to think it over.

On a windy night less than a week after the King’s hacking cough had ceased, Flagg unlocked his desk and took out the teak box. He murmured, “Well done,” to the kleffa carrot, which squeaked mindlessly in reply, and then lifted the heavy lid and took out the smaller box inside. He used the key around his neck to open it, and took out the packet that contained the Dragon Sand. He had bewitched this packet, and it was immune to the Dragon Sand’s terrible power. Or so he thought. Flagg took no chances, and removed the packet with a small pair of silver tweezers. He laid it beside one of the King’s goblets on his desk. Sweat stood out on his forehead in great round drops, for this was ticklish work indeed. One little mistake and he would pay for it with his life.

Flagg went out into the corridor that led to the dungeons and began to pant. He was hyperventilating. When you breathe rapidly, you fill your whole body with oxygen, and you can hold your breath for a long time. During the critical stage of his preparations, Flagg did not mean to breathe at all. There would be no mistakes, big or little. He was having too much fun to die.

He took a final great gasp of clean air from the barred window just outside the door to his apartment and reentered his rooms. He went to the envelope, took his dagger from his belt, and

delicately slit it open. There was a flat piece of obsidian, which the magician used as a paperweight, on his desk-in those days, obsidian was the hardest rock known. Using the tweezers again, he grasped the packet, turned it upside down, and poured out most of the green sand. He saved back a tiny bit-hardly more than a dozen grains, but this bit of extra was extremely important to his plans. Hard as the obsidian was, the rock immediately began to smoke.

Thirty seconds had passed now.

He picked up the obsidian, careful that not a single grain of Dragon Sand should touch his skin-if it did, it would work inward until it reached his heart and set it on fire. He tilted the stone over the goblet and poured it in.

Now, quickly, before the sand could began to eat into the glass, he poured in some of the King’s favorite wine-the same sort of wine Peter would be taking his father about now. The sand dissolved immediately. For a moment the red wine glimmered a sinister green, and then it returned to its usual color.

Fifty seconds.

Flagg went back to his desk. He picked up the flat rock and took his dagger by its handle. Only a few grains of Dragon Sand had touched the blade when he slit through the paper, but already they were working their way in, and evil little streamers of smoke rose from the pocks in the Anduan steel. He carried both the stone and the dagger out into the hallway.

Seventy seconds, and his chest was beginning to cry for air.

Thirty feet down the hallway, which led to the dungeon if you followed it far enough (a trip no one in Delain wanted to make), there was a grating in the floor. Flagg could hear gurgling water, and if he had not been holding his breath, he would have smelled a foul stench. This was one of the castle’s sewers. He dropped both the rock and the blade into it and grinned at the double splash in spite of his pounding chest. Then he hurried back to the window, leaned far out, and took breath after gasping breath.

When he had his wind back, he returned to his study. Now only the tweezers, the packet, and the glass of wine stood on the desk. There was not so much as a grain of sand on the tweezers, and the bit of sand left inside the bewitched packet could not harm him as long as he took reasonable care.

He felt he had done every well indeed so far. His work was by no means done, but it was well begun. He bent over the goblet and inhaled deeply. There was no danger now; when the sand was mixed with a liquid, its fumes became harmless and undetectable. Dragon Sand made deadly vapors only when it touched a solid, such as stone.

Such as flesh.

Flagg held the goblet up to the light, admiring its bloody glow.

“A final glass of wine, my King,” he said, and laughed until the two-headed parrot screamed in fear. “Something to warm your guts.”

He sat down, turned over his hourglass, and began to read from a huge book of spells. Flagg had been reading from this book-which was bound in human skin-for a thousand years and had gotten through only a quarter of it. To read too long of this book, written on the high, distant Plains of Leng by a madman named Alhazred, was to risk madness.

An hour . . . just an hour. When the top half of his hourglass was empty, he could be sure Peter would have come and gone. An hour, and he could take Roland this final glass of wine. For a moment, Flagg looked at the bone-white sand slipping smoothly through the waist of the hourglass, and then he bent calmly over his book.

Roland was pleased and touched that Flagg should have brought him a glass of wine that night before he went to

bed. He drank it off in two large gulps, and declared that it had warmed him greatly.

Smiling inside his hood, Flagg said: “I thought it would, your Highness. “

Whether it was fate or only luck that caused Thomas to see Flagg with his father that night is another question you must answer for yourself. I only know that he did see, and that it happened in large part because Flagg had been at pains over the years to make a special friend of this friendless, miserable boy.

I’ll explain in a moment-but first I must correct a wrong idea you may have about magic.

In stories of wizardry, there are three kinds that are usually spoken of almost carelessly, as if any second-class wizard could do them. These are turning lead into gold, changing one’s shape, and making oneself invisible. The first thing you should know is that real magic is never easy, and if you think it is, just try making your least favorite aunt disappear the next time she comes to spend a week or two. Real magic is hard, and although it is easier to do evil magic than good, even bad magic is tolerably hard.

Turning lead into gold can be done, once you know the names to call on, and if you can find someone to show you exactly the right trick of splitting the loaves of lead. Shape changing and invisibility, however, are impossible . . . or so close to it that you might as well use the word.

From time to time Flagg-who was a great eavesdropper -had listened to fools tell tales about young princes who escaped the clutches of evil genies by uttering a simple magic word and popping out of sight, or beautiful young princesses (in the stories

they were always beautiful, although Flagg’s experience had been that most princesses were spoiled rotten and, as the end products of long, inbred family lines, ugly as sin and stupid in the bargain) who tricked great ogres into becoming flies, which they then quickly swatted. In most stories, the princesses were also good at swatting flies, although most of the princesses Flagg had seen wouldn’t have been able to swat a fly dying on a cold windowsill in December. In stories it all sounded easy; in stories people changed their shapes or turned themselves into walking windowpanes all the time.

In truth, Flagg had never seen either trick done. He had once known a great Anduan magician who believed he had mastered the trick of changing his shape, but after six months of meditation and nearly a week of incantations in a series of agonizing body postures, he uttered the last awesome spell and succeeded only in making his nose nearly nine feet long and driving himself insane. And there had been fingernails growing out of his nose. Flagg remembered with a grim little smile. Great magician or not, the man had been a fool.

Invisibility was likewise impossible, at least as far as Flagg himself had been able to determine. Yet it was possible to make oneself . . . dim.

Yes, dim-that was really the best word for it, although others sometimes came to mind: ghostly, transparent, unobtrusive. Invisibility was out of his reach, but by first eating a pizzle and then reciting a number of spells, it was possible to become dim. When one was dim and a servant approached along a passageway, one simply drew aside and stood still and let the servant pass. In most cases, the servant’s eyes would drop to his own feet or suddenly find something interesting to look at on the ceiling. If one passed through a room, conversation would falter, and people would look momentarily distressed, as if all were having gas pains at the same time. Torches and wall sconces grew smoky. Candles sometimes blew out. It was necessary to actually hide when one was dim only if one saw someone whom one knew

well-for, whether one was dim or not, these people almost always saw. Dimness was useful, but it was not invisibility.

On the night Flagg took the poisoned wine to Roland, he first made himself dim. He did not expect to see anyone he knew. It was after nine o’clock now, the King was old and unwell, the days were short, and the castle went to bed early. When Thomas is King, Flagg thought, carrying the wine swiftly through the corridors, there will be parties every night. He already has his father’s taste for drink, although he favors wine rather than beer or mead. It should be easy enough to introduce him to a few stronger drinks …. After all, am I not his friend? Yes, when Peter is safely out of the way in the Needle and Thomas is King, there will be great parties every night . . . until the people in the alleys and the Baronies are choked enough to rise in bloody revolt. Then there will be one final party, the greatest of all . . . but I don’t think Thomas will enjoy it. Like the wine I’m bringing his father tonight, that party will be extremely hot.

He did not expect to see anyone he knew, and he didn’t. Only a few servants passed him, and they drew away from the place where he stood almost absently, as if they felt a cold draft.

All the same, someone saw him. Thomas saw him through the eyes of Niner, the dragon his father had killed long ago. Thomas was able to do this because Flagg himself had taught him the trick.

*IT* he way his father had rejected the gift of the boat

had hurt Thomas deeply, and after that he tended to keep clear

of his father. All the same, Thomas loved Roland and badly

wanted to make him happy the way Peter made him happy.

Even more than that, he wanted to make his father love him the

way he loved Peter. In fact, Thomas would have been happy if

their father had loved him even half as much.

The trouble was, Peter had all the good ideas first. Sometimes Peter tried to share his ideas with Thomas, but to Thomas the ideas either sounded silly (until they worked) or else he feared he wouldn’t be able to do his share of the work, as when Peter had made their father a set of Bendoh men three years ago.

“I’ll give Father something better than a bunch of stupid old game pieces,” Thomas had said haughtily, but what he was really thinking was that if he couldn’t make his father a simple wooden sailboat, he would never be able to help make something as difficult as the twenty-man Bendoh army. So Peter made the game pieces alone over a period of four months-the infantry men, the knights, the archers, the Fusilier, the General, the Monk- and of course Roland had loved them even though they were a bit clumsy. He had immediately put away the jade Bendoh set the great Ellender had carved for him forty years before and put the one Peter had made for him in its place. When Thomas saw this, he crept away to his apartments and went to bed, although it was the middle of the afternoon. He felt as if someone had reached into his chest and cut off a tiny piece of his heart and made him eat it. His heart tasted very bitter to him, and he hated Peter more than ever, although part of him still loved his hand-some older brother and always would.

And although the taste had been bitter, he had liked it.

Because it was his heart.

Now there was the business of the nightly glass of wine.

Peter had come to Thomas and said, “I was thinking it would be nice if we brought Dad a glass of wine every night, Tom. I asked the steward, and he said he couldn’t just give us a bottle because he has to make an accounting to the Chief Vintner at the end of each sixmonth, but he said we could pool some of our money and buy a bottle of the Barony Fifth Vat, which is Father’s favorite. And it’s really not expensive. We’d have lots of our allowances left over. And-“

“I think that’s the stupidest idea I ever heard!” Thomas burst out. “All the wine belongs to Father, all the wine in the King-dom, and he can have as much of it as he wants! Why should t

we spend our money to give Father something he owns anyway? We’ll enrich that fat little steward, that’s all we’ll do!”

Peter said patiently, “It will please him that we spent our money on him, even if it’s something he owns anyway.”

“How do you know that?”

Simply, maddeningly, Peter replied: “I just do.”

Thomas looked at him, scowling. How could he tell Peter that the Chief Vintner had caught him in the wine cellar, stealing a bottle of wine, just the month before? The fat little pig had given him a shaking and threatened to tell his father if Thomas didn’t give him a gold piece. Thomas had paid, tears of rage and shame standing in his eyes. If it had been Peter, you would have turned the other way and pretended not to see, you slug, he thought. If it had been Peter, you would have turned your back. Because Peter is going to be King someday soon, and I’ll just be a prince forever. It also occurred to him that Peter never would have tried to steal wine in the first place, but the truth of this thought only made him angrier at his brother.

“I just thought-” Peter began.

” `You just thought, you just thought,’ ” Thomas mimicked savagely. “Well, go think somewhere else! When Father finds out you paid the Chief Vintner for his own wine, he’ll laugh at you and call you a fool!”

But Roland hadn’t laughed at Peter, hadn’t called him a fool, -he had called him a good son in a voice that was unsteady and almost weepy. Thomas knew, because he had crept after when Peter took their father the wine that first night. He watched through the eyes of the dragon and saw it all.

If you had asked Flagg straight out why he had shown Thomas that place and the secret passageway which led to it, he would have been able to give you no very satisfactory answer.

That was because he didn’t exactly know why he had done it. He had an instinct for mischief in his head, just as some people have a way with numbers or a clear sense of direction. The castle was very old, and there were many secret doors and passages in it. Flagg knew most of them (no one, not even he, knew all of them), but this was the only one he had ever shown Thomas. His instinct for mischief told him that this one might cause trouble, and Flagg simply obeyed his instinct. Mischief, after all was Flagg’s cake and pie.

Every now and then he would pop into Thomas’s room and cry, “Tommy, you look glum! I’ve thought of something you might like to see! Want to go and have a look?” He almost always said you look glum, Tommy or you look a bit in the dumps, Tommy or you look like you just sat on a pinchbug, Tommy because he had a knack of showing up when Thomas was feeling particularly depressed or blue. Flagg knew that Thomas was afraid of him, and Thomas would find an excuse not to go with him unless he particularly needed a friend . . . and felt so low and unhappy he wouldn’t be particular about which friend it was. Flagg knew this, but Thomas himself did not-his fear of Flagg ran deep. On the surface of his mind, he thought Flagg was a fine fellow, full of tricks and fun. Sometimes the fun was a bit mean, but that often suited Thomas’s disposition.

Do you think it strange that Flagg would know something about Thomas that Thomas didn’t know about himself? It really isn’t strange at all. People’s minds, particularly the minds of children, are like wells-deep wells full of sweet water. And sometimes, when a particular thought is too unpleasant to bear, the person who has that thought will lock it into a heavy box and throw it into that well. He listens for the splash . . . and then the box is gone. Except it is not, of course. Not really. Flagg, being very old and very wise, as well as very wicked, knew that even the deepest well has a bottom, and just because a thing is out of sight doesn’t mean it is gone. It is still there, resting at the bottom. And he knew that the caskets those evil,

frightening ideas are buried in may rot, and the nastiness inside may leak out after awhile and poison the water . . . and when the well of the mind is badly poisoned, we call the result insanity.

If the magician showed him scary things in the castle some-times, he did it because he knew that the more frightened of him Thomas was, the more power he would gain over Thomas . . . and he knew he could have that power, because he knew some-thing I’ve already told you-that Thomas was weak and often neglected by his father. Flagg wanted Thomas to be afraid of him, and he wanted to make sure that, as the years passed, Thomas had to throw many of those locked boxes into the darkness inside him. If Thomas were to go insane at some point after he became King, well, what of that? It would make it easier for Flagg to rule; it would make his power all the greater.

How did Flagg know the right times to visit Thomas, and take him on these strange tours of the castle? Sometimes he saw what had happened to make Thomas sad or angry in his crystal. More often, he simply felt an urge to go to Thomas and heeded it-that instinct for mischief rarely led him wrong.

Once he took Thomas high into the eastern tower-they climbed stairs until Thomas was panting like a dog, but Flagg never seemed to lose his breath. At the top was a door so small that even Thomas had to crawl through it on his hand and knees. Beyond was a dark, rustling room with a single window. Flagg had led him to that window without a word, and when Thomas saw the view-the entire city of Delain, the Near Towns, and then the hills which stood between the Near Towns and the Eastern Barony marching off into a blue haze-he thought that the sight had been worth every stair his aching legs had climbed. His heart swelled with the beauty of it, and he turned to thank Flagg-but something about the white blur of the magician’s face inside his hood had frozen the words on his lips.

“Now watch this!” Flagg said, and held up his hand. A spurt of blue flame rose from his index finger, and the rustling sound in the room, which Thomas had first taken for the sound of the

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wind, turned to a rising whir of leathery wings. A moment later Thomas was screaming and beating the air above his head as he blundered blindly back toward the tiny door. The little round room at the top of the castle’s eastern tower had the best view in Delain save for the cell at the top of the Needle, but now he understood why no one visited it. The room was infested with huge bats. Disturbed by the light Flagg had raised, they whirled and swooped. Later, after they were out and Flagg had quieted the boy-Thomas, who hated bats, had been in hysterics-the magician insisted it was just a joke meant to cheer him up. Thomas believed him . . . but for weeks after he awoke screaming with nightmares in which bats flapped around his head, got caught in his hair, and ripped at his face with their sharp claws and ratty teeth.

On another excursion, Flagg took him to the King’s treasure room and showed him the mounds of gold coins, tall stacks of gold bars, and the deep bins marked EMERALDS, DIAMONDS, RUBIES, FIREDIMS and so on.

“Are they really full of jewels?” Thomas asked.

“Look and see,” Flagg said. He opened one of the bins and pulled out a handful of uncut emeralds. They sparkled wildly in his hand.

“My fathers’s name!” Thomas gasped.

“Oh, that’s nothing! Look over here! Pirate treasure, Tommy!”

He showed Thomas a pile of booty from the encounter with the Anduan pirates some twelve years ago. The Delain Treasury was rich, the few treasure-room clerks old, and this particular heap hadn’t been sorted yet. Thomas gasped at heavy swords with jeweled hilts, daggers with blades that had been crusted with serrated diamonds so they would cut deeper, heavy killballs made of rhodochrosite.

“All this belongs to the Kingdom?” Thomas asked in an awed voice.

“It all belongs to your father,” Flagg replied, although Thomas had actually been correct. “Someday it will all belong to Peter.”

“And me,” Thomas said with a ten-year-olds confidence.

“No,” Flagg said, just the right tinge of regret in his voice, `just to Peter. Because he’s the oldest, and he’ll be King.”

“He’ll share,” Thomas said, but with the slightest tremor of doubt in his voice. “Pete always shares.”

“Peter’s a fine boy, and I’m sure you’re right. He’ll probably share. But no one can make a King share, you know. No one can make a King do anything he doesn’t want to do.” He looked at Thomas to gauge the effect of this remark, then looked back at the deep, shadowy treasure room. Somewhere, one of the aged clerks was droning out a count of ducats. “Such a lot of treasure, and all for one man, ” Flagg remarked. “It’s really something to think about, isn’t it, Tommy?”

Thomas said nothing, but Flagg had been well pleased. He saw that Tommy was thinking about it, all right, and he judged than another of those poisoned caskets was tumbling down into the well of Thomas’s mind-ker-splash! And that was indeed so. Later, when Peter proposed to Thomas that they share the expense of the nightly bottle of wine, Thomas had remembered the great treasure room-and he remembered that all the treasure in it would belong to his brother. Easy for you to talk so blithely of buying wine! Why not? Someday you’ll have all the money in the world!

Then, about a year before he brought the poisoned wine to the King, on impulse, Flagg had shown Thomas this secret passage . . . and on this one occasion his usually unerring instinct for mischief might have led him astray. Again, I leave it for you to decide.

Tommy, you look down in the dumps!” he cried. The hood of his cloak was pushed back on that day, and he looked almost normal.

Almost.

Tommy felt down in them. He had suffered through a long luncheon at which his father had praised Peter’s scores in geometry and navigation to his advisors with the most lavish superlatives. Roland had never rightly understood either. He knew that a triangle had three sides and a square had four; he knew you could find your way out of the woods when you were lost by following Old Star in the sky; and that was where his knowledge ended. That was where Thomas’s knowledge ended, too, so he felt that luncheon would never be done. Worse, the meat was just the way his father liked it-bloody and barely cooked. Bloody meat made Thomas feel almost sick.

“My lunch didn’t agree with me, that’s all,” he said to Flagg.

“Well, I know just the thing to cheer you up,” Flagg said. “I’ll show you a secret of the castle, Tommy my boy.”

Thomas was playing with a buggerlug bug. He had it on his desk and had set his schoolbooks around it in a series of barriers. If the trundling beetle looked as if he might find a way out, Thomas would shift one of the books to keep him in.

“I’m pretty tired,” Thomas said. This was not a lie. Hearing Peter praised so highly always made him feel tired.

“You’ll like it,” Flagg said in a tone that was mostly wheedling . . . but a little threatening, too.

Thomas looked at him apprehensively. “There aren’t any . . . any bats, are there?”

Flagg laughed cheerily-but that laugh raised gooseflesh on Thomas’s arms anyway. He clapped Thomas on the back. “Not a bat! Not a drip! Not a draft! Warm as toast! And you can peek at your father, Tommy!”

Thomas knew that peeking was just another way of saying spying, and that spying was wrong-but this had been a shrewd shot all the same. This next time the buggerlug bug found a way to escape between two of the books, Thomas let it go. “All right,” he said, “but there better not be any bats.”

Flagg slipped an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “No bats, I swear-but here’s something for you to mull over in your

mind, Tommy. You’ll not only see your father, you’ll see him through the eyes of his greatest trophy.”

Thomas’s own eyes widened with interest. Flagg was satisfied. The fish was hooked and landed. “What do you mean?”

“Come and see for yourself,” was all he would say.

He led Thomas through a maze of corridors. You would have become lost very soon, and I probably would have gotten lost myself before long, but Thomas knew this way as well as you know your way through your own bedroom in the dark-at least he did until Flagg led him aside.

They had almost reached the King’s own apartments when Flagg pushed open a recessed wooden door that Thomas had never really noticed before. Of course it had always been there, but in castles there are often doors-whole wings, even-that have mastered the art of being dim.

This passage was quite narrow. A chambermaid with an arm-load of sheets passed them; she was so terrified to have met the King’s magician in this slim stone throat that it seemed she would happily have shrunk into the very pores of the stone blocks to avoid touching him. Thomas almost laughed because sometimes he felt a little like that himself when Flagg was around. They met no one else at all.

Faintly, from below them, he could hear dogs barking, and that gave him a rough idea of where he was. The only dogs inside the castle proper were his father’s hunting dogs, and they were probably barking because it was time for them to be fed. Most of Roland’s dogs were now almost as old as he was, and because he knew how the cold ached in his own bones, Roland had commanded that a kennel be made for them right here in the castle. To reach the dogs from his father’s main sitting cham-ber, one went down a flight of stairs, turned right, and walked ten yards or so up an interior corridor. So Thomas knew they were about thirty feet to the right of his father’s private rooms.

Flagg stopped so suddenly that Thomas almost ran into him. The magician looked swiftly around to make sure they had the passageway to themselves. They did.

“Fourth stone up from the one at the bottom with the chip in it,” Flagg said. “Press it. Quick!”

Ah, there was a secret here, all right, and Thomas loved secrets. Brightening, he counted up four stones from the one with the chip and pressed. He expected some neat little bit of Jiggery-pokery a sliding panel, perhaps-but he was quite unprepared for what did happen.

The stone slid in with perfect ease to a depth of about three inches. There was a click. An entire section of wall suddenly swung inward, revealing a dark vertical crack. This wasn’t a wall at all! It was a huge door! Thomas’s jaw dropped.

Flagg slapped Thomas’s bottom.

“Quick, I said, you little fool!” he cried in a low voice. There was urgency in his voice, and this wasn’t simply put on for Thomas’s benefit, as many of Flagg’s emotions were. He looked right and left to verify that the passage was still empty. “Go! Now!”

Thomas looked at the dark crack that had been revealed and thought uneasily about bats again. But one look at Flagg’s face showed him that this would be a bad time to attempt a discussion on the subject.

He pushed the door open wider and stepped into the darkness. Flagg followed at once. Thomas heard the low flap of the magician’s cloak as he turned and shoved the wall closed again. The darkness was utter and complete, the air still and dry. Before he could open his mouth to say anything, the blue flame at the tip of Flagg’s index finger flared alight, throwing a harsh blue-white fan of illumination.

Thomas cringed without even thinking about it, and his hands flew up.

Flagg laughed harshly. “No bats, Tommy. Didn’t I promise?”

Nor were there. The ceiling was quite low, and Thomas could see for himself. No bats, and warm as toast . . . just as the magician had promised. By the light of Flagg’s magic finger-flare, he could also see they were in a secret passage which was about twenty-five feet long. Walls, floor, and ceiling were covered with ironwood boards. He couldn’t see the far end very well, but it looked perfectly blank.

He could still hear the muffled barking of the dogs.

“When I said be quick, I meant it,” Flagg said. He bent over Thomas, a vague, looming shadow that was, in this darkness, rather batlike itself. Thomas drew back a step, uneasily. As always, there was an unpleasant smell about the magician-a smell of secret powders and bitter herbs. “You know where the passage is now, and I’ll not be the one to tell you not to use it. But if you’re ever caught using it, you must say you discovered it by accident.”

The shape loomed even closer, forcing Thomas back another step.

“If you say I showed it to you, Tommy, I’ll make you sorry. “

“I’ll never tell,” Thomas said. His words sounded thin and shaky.

“Good. Better yet if no one ever sees you using it. Spying on a King is serious business, prince or not. Now follow me. And be quiet.”

Flagg led him to the end of the passageway. The far wall was also dressed with ironwood, but when Flagg raised the flame that burned from the tip of his finger, Thomas saw two little panels. Flagg pursed his lips and blew out the light.

In utter blackness, he whispered: “Never open these two panels with a light burning. He might see. He’s old, but he still sees well. He might see something, even though the eyeballs are of tinted glass.”

“What-“

“Shhhh! There isn’t much wrong with his ears, either.”

Thomas fell quiet, his heart pounding in his chest. He felt a great excitement that he didn’t understand. Later he thought that he had been excited because he knew in some way what was going to happen.

In the darkness he heard a faint sliding sound, and suddenly a dim ray of light-torchlight-lit the darkness. There was a second sliding sound and a second ray of light appeared. Now

he could see Flagg again, very faintly, and his own hands when he held them up before him.

Thomas saw Flagg step up to the wall and bend a little; then most of the light was cut out as he put his eyes to the two holes through which the rays of light fell. He looked for a moment, then grunted and stepped away. He motioned to Thomas. “Have a look,” he said.

More excited than ever, Thomas cautiously put his eyes to the holes. He saw clearly enough, although everything had an odd greenish-yellow aspect-it was as if he were looking through smoked glass. A sense of perfect, delighted wonder rose in him. He was looking down into his father’s sitting room. He saw his father slouched by the fire in his favorite chair-one with high wings which threw shadows across his lined face.

It was very much the room of a huntsman; in our world such a room would often be called a den, although this one was as big as some ordinary houses. Flaring torches lined the long walls. Heads were mounted everywhere: heads of bear, of deer, of elk, of wildebeest, of cormorant. There was even a grand featherex, which is the cousin of our legendary bird the phoenix. Thomas could not see the head of Niner, the dragon his father had killed before he was born, but this did not immediately register on him.

His father was picking morosely at a sweet. A pot of tea steamed near at hand.

That was all that was really happening in that great room that could have (and at times had) held upward of two hundred people just his father, with a fur robe draped around him, having a solitary afternoon tea. Yet Thomas watched for a time that seemed endless. His fascination and his excitement with this view of his father cannot be told. His heartbeat, which had been rapid before, doubled. Blood sang and pounded in his head. His hands clenched into fists so tight that he would later discover bloody crescent moons imprinted into his palms where his fin-gernails had bitten.

Why was he so excited simply to be looking at an old man

{insert image on page 76}

picking halfheartedly at a piece of cake? Well, first you must remember that the old man wasn’t just any old man. He was Thomas’s father. And spying, sad to say, has its own attraction. When you can see people doing something and they don’t see you, even the most trivial actions seem important.

After awhile, Thomas began to feel a little ashamed of what he was doing, and that was not really surprising. Spying on a person is a kind of stealing, after all-it’s stealing a look at what people do when they think they are alone. But that is also one of its chief fascinations, and Thomas might have looked for hours if Flagg had not murmured, “Do you know where you are, Tommy?”

“I-” don’t think so, he was going to add, but of course he did know. His sense of direction was good, and with a little thought he could imagine the reverse of this angle. He suddenly understood what Flagg meant when he said he, Thomas, would see his father through the eyes of Roland’s greatest trophy. He was looking down at his father from a little more than halfway up the west wall . . . and that was where the greatest head of all was hung-that of Niner, his father’s dragon.

He might see something, even though the eyeballs are of tinted glass.

Now he understood that, too. Thomas had to clap his hands to his mouth to stifle a shrill giggle.

Flagg slid the little panels shut again . . . but he, too, was smiling.

“No!” Thomas whispered. “No, I want to see more!”

“Not this afternoon,” Flagg said. “You’ve seen enough this afternoon. You can come again when you want . . . although if you come too often, you’ll surely be caught. Now come on. We’re going back.”

Flagg relit the magic flame and led Thomas down the corridor again. At the end, he put the light out and there was another sliding sound as he opened a peephole. He guided Thomas’s hand to it so he would know where it was, and then bade him look.

“Notice that you can see the passageway in both directions,” Flagg said. “Always be careful to look before you open the secret door, or someday you will be surprised.”

Thomas put one eye to the peephole and saw, directly across the corridor, an ornate window with glass sides that angled slightly into the passageway. It was much too fancy for such a small passageway, but Thomas understood without having to be told that it had been put here by whoever had made the secret passageway. Looking into the angled sides, he could indeed see a ghostly reflection of the corridor in both directions.

“Empty?” Flagg whispered.

“Yes,” Thomas whispered back.

Flagg pushed an interior spring (again guiding Thomas’s hand to it for future reference), and the door clicked open. “Quickly now!” Flagg said. They were out and the door was shut behind them in a trice.

Ten minutes later, they were back in Thomas’s rooms.

“Enough excitement for one day,” Flagg said. “Remember what I told you, Tommy: don’t use the passageway so often that you’ll be caught, and if you are caught” -Flagg’s eyes glittered grimly-“remember that you found that place by accident.”

“I will,” Thomas said quickly. His voice was high and it squeaked like a hinge that needed oil. When Flagg looked at him that way, his heart felt like a bird caught in his chest, fluttering in panic.

Thomas heeded Flagg’s advice not to go often, but he did use the passageway from time to time, and peeked at his father through the glass eyes of Niner-peeked into a world where everything became greeny-gold. Going away later with a pounding headache (as he almost always did), he would think:

Your head aches because you were seeing the way dragons must see the world-as if everything was dried out and ready to burn. And perhaps Flagg’s instinct for mischief in this matter was not so bad at all, because, by spying on his father, Thomas learned to feel a new thing for Roland. Before he knew about the secret passage he had felt love for him, and often a sorrow that he could not please him better, and sometimes fear. Now he learned to feel con-tempt, as well.

Whenever Thomas spied into Roland’s sitting room and found his father in company, he left again quickly. He only lingered when his father was alone. In the past, Roland rarely had been, even in such rooms as his den, which was a part of his “private apartments.” There was always one more urgent matter to be attended to, one more advisor to see, one more petition to hear.

But Roland’s time of power was passing. As his importance waned with his good health, he found himself remembering all the times he had cried to either Sasha or Flagg: “Won’t these people ever leave me alone?” The memory brought a rueful smile to his lips. Now that they did, he missed them.

Thomas felt contempt because people are rarely at their best when they are alone. They usually put their masks of politeness, good order, and good breeding aside. What’s beneath? Some warty monster? Some disgusting thing that would make people run away, screaming? Sometimes, perhaps, but usually it’s noth-ing bad at all. Usually people would just laugh if they saw us with our masks off-laugh, make a revolted face, or do both at the same time.

Thomas saw that his father, whom he had always loved and feared, who had seemed to him the greatest man in the world, often picked his nose when he was alone. He would root around in first one nostril and then the other until he got a plump green booger. He would regard these with solemn satisfaction, turning each one this way and that in the firelight, the way a jeweler might turn a particularly fine emerald. Most of these he would then rub under the chair in which he was sitting. Others, I regret

to say, he popped into his mouth and munched with an expression of reflective enjoyment on his face.

He would have only a single glass of wine at night-the glass which Peter brought him-but after Peter left, he drank what seemed to Thomas huge amounts of beer (it was only years later that Thomas came to realize that his father hadn’t wanted Peter to see him drunk), and when he needed to urinate, he rarely used the commode in the corner. Most times he simply stood up and pissed into the fire, often farting as he did so.

He talked to himself. He would sometimes walk around the long room like a man who was not sure where he was, speaking either to the air or to the mounted heads.

“I remember that day we got you, Bonsey,” he would say to one of the elk heads (another of his eccentricities was that he had named every one of the trophies). “I was with Bill Squathings and that fellow with the great lump on the side of his face. I remember how you come through the trees and Bill let loose, and then that fellow with the lump let loose, then I let loose-“

Then his father would demonstrate how he had let loose by raising his leg and farting, even as he mimed drawing back a bowstring and letting fly. And he would laugh an old man’s shrill, unpleasant cackle.

Thomas would slide the little panels back after awhile and slink down the corridor again, his head pounding and an uneasy grin on his face-the head and grin of a boy who has been eating green apples and knows he may be sicker by morning than he is now.

This was the father he had always loved and feared?

He was an old man who farted out stinking clouds of steam.

This was the King his loyal subjects called Roland the Good?

He pissed into the fire, sending up more clouds of steam.

This was the man who made his heart break by not liking his boat?

He talked to the stuffed heads on his walls, calling them silly names like Bonsey and Stag-Pool and Puckerstring; he picked his nose and sometimes ate the boogers.

8 1

I don’t care for you anymore, Thomas would think, checking the peephole to make sure the corridor was empty and then creeping back to his room like a felon. You’re a filthy, silly old man and you’re nothing to me! Nothing at all! No!

But he was something to Thomas. Some part of him went on loving Roland just the same-some part of him wanted to go to his father so his father would have something better to talk to than a bunch of stuffed heads on the walls.

Still, there was that other part of him that liked spying better.

The night that Flagg came to King Roland’s private rooms with the glass of poisoned wine was the first occasion in a very long time that Thomas had dared spy. There was a good reason for this.

One night about three months before, Thomas found himself unable to sleep. He tossed and turned until he heard the keep watchman cry eleven. Then he got up, dressed, and left his rooms. Less than ten minutes later, he was looking down into his father’s den. He had thought his father might be asleep, but he was not. Roland was awake, and very, very drunk.

Thomas had seen his father drunk many times before, but he had never seen him in anything remotely like his current state. The boy was flabbergasted and badly frightened.

There are people much older than Thomas was then who harbor the idea that old age is always a gentle time-that an old person may exhibit gentle wisdom, gentle crabbiness or craftiness, perhaps the gentle confusion of senility. They will grant these, but find it hard to credit any real fire. They have an illusion that by the seventies, any real fire must have faded to coals. That may be true, but on this night Thomas discovered that coals may sometimes flare up violently.

His father was striding rapidly up and down the length of his

sitting room, his fur robe flying out behind him. His nightcap had fallen off; his remaining hair hung down in tangled locks, mostly about his ears. He was not staggering, as he had done on other nights, moving tentatively with one hand out to keep from running into the furniture. He was rolling like a sailor, but he was not staggering. When he did happen to run into one of the high-backed chairs which stood near the walls beneath the snarling head of a lynx, Roland threw the chair aside with a roar that made Thomas cringe. The hairs on his arms prickled. The chair flew across the room and hit the far wall. Its iron-wood back splintered down the middle-in this bitter drunk-enness, the old King had regained the strength of his middle years.

He looked up at the lynx head with red, glaring eyes.

“Bite me!” he roared at it. The raw hoarseness in his voice made Thomas cringe again. “Bite me, are you afeard? Come down out of that wall, Craker! Jump! Here’s my chest, see?” He tore open the robe, revealing his scrawny chest. He bared his few teeth at Craker’s many, and lifted his head. “Here’s my neck! Come on, jump! I’ll do you with my bare hands! I’LL RIP your STINKING GUTS

OUT!”

He stood for a moment, chest out and head up, looking like an animal himself-an ancient stag, perhaps, that has been brought to bay and can now hope for nothing better than to die well. Then he whirled away, stopping at a bear’s head to shake a fist at it and roar a string of curses at it-curses so terrible that Thomas, cringing in the dark, believed that the bear’s outraged spirit might swoop down, reanimate the stuffed head, and tear his father open while he watched.

But Roland was away again. He seized his mug, drained it, then whirled with brew dripping from his chops. He hurled the silver mug across the room, where it struck a stone angle of the fireplace hard enough to leave a dent in the metal.

Now his father came down the room toward him, throwing another chair out of the way, then kicking a table aside with his

bare foot. His eyes flicked up . . . and met Thomas’s own. Yes- they met his own eyes. Thomas felt their gazes lock, and a gray, swooning terror filled him like frozen breath.

His father stalked toward him, his yellowed teeth bared, his remaining hair hanging over his ears, beer dripping from his chin and the corners of his mouth.

“You,” Roland whispered in a low, terrible voice. “Why do you stare at me? What do you hope to see?”

Thomas could not move. Found out, his mind gibbered, found out, by all the gods that ever were or shall be, I am found out and I will surely be exiled!

His father stood there, his eyes fixed on the mounted dragon’s head. In his guilt, Thomas was sure his father had spoken to him, but this was not so-Roland had only spoken to Niner as he had spoken to the other heads. Yet if Thomas could see out of the tinted glass eyeballs, then his father could see in, at least to some degree. If Thomas hadn’t been utterly paralyzed with fear, he would have run away in a panic-even if he had sum-moned enough presence of mind to hold his ground, his eyes surely would have moved. And if Roland had seen the eyes of the dragon move, what might he have thought? That the dragon was coming to life again? Perhaps. In his drunken state, I even think that likely. If Thomas had so much as blinked his eyes on that occasion, Flagg would have needed no poison later. The King, old and frail in spite of the temporary potency the drink had given him, would almost surely have died of fright.

Roland suddenly leaped forward.

“WHY Do You STARE AT ME?” he shrieked, and in his drunk-enness it was Niner, Delain’s last dragon, that he shrieked at, but of course, Thomas did not know that. “WHY Do YOU STARE

AT ME SO? I’VE DONE THE BEST I COULD, ALWAYS THE BEST I COULD! DID I ASK FOR THIS? DID I ASK FOR IT? ANSWER ME, DAMN YOU! I DID THE BEST I COULD AND LOOK AT ME NOW! LOOK AT ME NOW!”

He pulled his robe wide open, showing his naked body, its gray skin blotchily flushed with drink.

“LOOK AT ME NOW!” he shrieked again, and looked down at himself, weeping.

Thomas could take no more. He slammed shut the panels behind the dragon’s glass eyes at the same moment his father took his eyes from Niner to look down at his own wasted body. Thomas crashed and blundered down the black corridor and slammed full force into the closed door, braining himself and falling in a heap. He was up in a moment, unaware of the blood pouring down his face from a cut in his forehead, pounding at the secret spring until the door popped open. He rushed out into the corridor, not even thinking to check if anyone was there to see him. All he could see was his father’s glaring, bloodshot eyes, all he could hear was his father screaming Why do you stare at me?

He had no way of knowing that his father had already fallen into a sleep of deep drunkenness. When Roland woke up the next morning, he was still on the floor, and the first thing he did, in spite of his fiercely aching head and his throbbing, bruised body (Roland was far too old for such strenuous revels), was to look at the dragon’s head. He rarely dreamed when he was drunk -there was only an interval of sodden darkness. But last night a terrible dream had come to him: the glass eyes of the dragon’s head had moved and Niner came to life. The worm breathed its deadly breath down on him, and although he could not see that fire, he could feel it deep down inside him, hot and getting hotter.

With this dream still lingering fresh in his mind, he dreaded what he might see when he looked up. But all was as it had been for years now. Niner snarled his fearsome snarl, his forked tongue lolled between teeth almost as long as fence pickets, his green–gold eyes stared blankly across the room. Ceremoniously crossed above this fabulous trophy were Roland’s great bow and the arrow Foe-Hammer, its tip and shaft still black with dragon blood. He mentioned this terrible dream once to Flagg, who only nodded and looked more thoughtful than usual. Then Ro-land simply forgot it.

Forgetting was not so easy for Thomas.

He was haunted for weeks by nightmares. In them, his father stared at him and shrieked, “See what you’ve done to me!” and threw his robe open to display his nakedness-old puckered scars, drooping belly, sagging muscles-as if to say this too had all been Thomas’s fault, that if he hadn’t spied . . .

“Why do you never want to see Father anymore?” Peter asked him one day. “He thinks you’re mad at him.”

“That I’m mad at him?” Thomas was astounded.

“That’s what he said at tea today,” Peter said. He looked at his brother closely, observing the dark circles under Thomas’s eyes, the pallor of Thomas’s cheeks and forehead. “Tom, what’s wrong?”

“Maybe nothing,” Thomas said slowly.

The next day he took tea with his father and brother. Going took all of his courage, but Thomas did have courage, and he sometimes found it-usually when his back was to the wall. His father gave him a kiss and asked him if anything was wrong. Thomas muttered that he hadn’t been feeling well, but now he felt fine. His father nodded, gave him a rough hug, then went back to his usual behavior-which consisted mostly of ignoring Thomas in favor of Peter. For once, Thomas welcomed this -he didn’t want his father looking at him any more than necessary, at least for a while. That night, lying awake for a long time in bed and listening to the wind moan outside, he came to the conclusion that he had had a very close shave . . . but that he had somehow gotten away with it.

But never again, he thought. In the weeks after, the nightmares came less and less frequently. Finally they stopped altogether.

Still, the castle’s head groom, Yosef, was right about one thing: boys are sometimes better at pledging vows than they are at keeping them, and Thomas’s desire to spy on his father at last grew stronger than both his fears and his good intentions. And that is how it happened that on the night Flagg came to Roland with the poisoned wine, Thomas was watching.

When Thomas got there and slid aside the two little panels, his father and his brother were just finishing their nightly glass of wine together. Peter was now almost seventeen, tall and handsome. The two of them sat by the fire, drinking and talking like old friends, and Thomas felt the old hate fill his heart with acid. After some little time, Peter arose and took courteous leave of his father.

“You leave earlier and earlier these nights, ” Roland remarked.

Peter made some demurral.

Roland smiled. It was a sweet, sad smile, mostly toothless. “I hear,” said he, “that she is lovely.”

Peter looked flustered, which was uncommon with him. He stammered, which was even less common.

“Go,” Roland interrupted. “Go. Be gentle with her, and be kind . . . but be hot, if there is ardor in you. Later years are cold years, Peter. Be hot while your years are green, and fuel is plentiful, and the fire may burn high. “

Peter smiled. “You speak as if you are very old, Father, but you still look strong and hale to me.”

Roland embraced Peter. “I love you,” he said.

Peter smiled with no awkwardness or embarrassment. “I love you, too, Dad,” he said, and in his lonely darkness (spying is always lonely work, and the spyer almost always does it in the dark), Thomas pulled a horrible face.

Peter left, and for an hour or more not much happened. Roland sat morosely by the fire, drinking glass after glass of beer. He did not roar or bellow or talk to the heads on the walls; there was no destruction of furniture. Thomas had almost made up his mind to leave, when there was a double rap at the door.

Roland had been looking into the fire, almost hypnotized by the flicker-play of the flames. Now he roused himself and called, “Who comes?”

Thomas heard no response, but his father rose and went to the door as if he had. He opened it, and at first Thomas thought his father’s habit of talking to the heads on the walls had taken a queer new turn-that his father was now inventing invisible human company to relieve his boredom.

“Strange to see you here at this hour,” Roland said, apparently walking back toward the fire in the company of no one at all. “I thought you were always at your spells and conjurations after

dark.”

Thomas blinked, rubbed his eyes, and saw that someone was there after all. For a moment he couldn’t rightly make out

who . . . and then he wondered how he could possibly have

thought his father was alone when Flagg was right there beside

him. Flagg was carrying two glasses of wine on a silver tray.

“Wives’ tale, m’Lord-magicians conjure early as well as late. But of course we have our darksome image to keep up.”

Roland’s sense of humor was always improved by beer-so much so that he would often laugh at things that weren’t funny in the least. At this remark he threw back his head and bellowed as if it was the greatest joke he had ever heard. Flagg smiled thinly.

When Roland’s fit of laughing had passed, he said: “What’s this? Wine?”

“Your son is barely more than a boy, but his deference toward his father and his honor of his King have shamed me, a grown man,” Flagg said. “I brought you a glass of wine, my King, to show you that I, too, love you.”

He passed it to Roland, who looked absurdly touched.

Don’t drink it, Father! Thomas thought suddenly-his mind was full of an alarm he couldn’t understand. Roland’s head came up suddenly and tilted, almost as if he had heard.

“He’s a good boy, my Peter,” Roland said.

“Indeed,” Flagg replied. “Everyone in the Kingdom says so.”

“Do they?” Roland asked, looking pleased. “Do they, indeed?”

“Yes-so they do. Shall we toast him?” Flagg raised his glass. No, Father! Thomas shouted in his mind again, but if his father had heard his first thought, he didn’t hear this one. His face shone with love for Thomas’s elder brother.

“To Peter, then!” Roland raised the glass of poisoned wine high.

“To Peter!” Flagg agreed, smiling. “To the King!”

Thomas cringed in the dark. Flagg’s making two different toasts! I don’t know what he means, but . . . Father!

This time it was Flagg who turned his darkly considering gaze toward the dragon’s head for a moment, as if he had heard the thought. Thomas froze, and in a moment Flagg’s gaze turned back to Roland.

They clinked glasses and drank. As his father quaffed the glass of wine, Thomas felt a splinter of ice push its way into his heart.

Flagg made a half-turn in his chair and threw his glass into the fire. “Peter!”

“Peter!” Roland echoed, and threw his own. It smashed against the sooty brickwork at the back of the fireplace and fell into the flames, which for a moment seemed to flare an ugly green.

Roland raised the back of his hand to his mouth for a moment, as if to stifle a belch. “Did you spice it?” he asked. “It tasted . . . almost mulled.”

“No, my Lord,” Flagg said gravely, but Thomas thought he sensed a smile behind the mask of the magician’s gravity, and that splinter of ice slipped further into his heart. Suddenly he wanted no more of spying, not ever. He closed the peepholes and crept back to his room. He felt first hot, then cold, then hot again. By morning he had a fever. Before he was well again, his father was dead, his brother imprisoned in the room at the top of the Needle, and he was a boy King at the age of barely twelve-Thomas the Light-Bringer, he was dubbed at the cor-onation ceremonies. And who was his closest advisor?

You guess.

hen Flagg left Roland (the old man was feeling sprightlier than ever by then, a sure sign the Dragon Sand was at work in him), he went back to his dark basement rooms. He got out the tweezers and the packet containing the remaining few grains of sand and put them on his huge old desk. Then he turned his hourglass over and resumed reading.

Outside, the wind screamed and gobbled-old wives cringed in their beds and slept poorly and told their husbands that Rhian-non, the Dark Witch of the Coos, was riding her hateful broom this night, and wicked work was afoot. The husbands grunted, turned over, told their wives to go back to sleep and leave them alone. They were dull fellows for the most part; when an eye is wanted to see straws flying in the wind, give me an old wife any day.

Once a spider skittered halfway across Flagg’s book, touched a spell so terrible not even the magician dared use it, and turned instantly to stone.

Flagg grinned.

When the hourglass was empty, he turned it over again. And again. And again. He turned it over eight times in all, and when the eighth hour’s worth of sand was nearly gone, he set about finishing his work. He kept a large number of animals in a dim room down the hall from his study, and he went there first. The little creatures skittered and cringed when Flagg came near. He did not blame them.

In the far corner was a wicker cage containing half a dozen brown mice-such mice were everywhere in the castle, and that was important. Down here there were also huge rats, but it was not a rat Flagg wanted tonight. The Royal Rat upstairs had been poisoned; a simple mouse would be enough to make sure the crime came home to the Royal Ratling. If all went well, Peter would soon be as tightly locked up as these mice.

Flagg reached into the cage and removed one. It trembled wildly in his cupped hand. He could feel the rapid thrumming of its heart, and he new that if he simply held it, it would soon die of fright.

Flagg pointed the little finger of his left hand at the mouse. The fingernail glowed faintly blue for a moment.

“Sleep,” the magician commanded, and the mouse fell on its side and went to sleep on his open palm.

Flagg took it back into his study and laid it on his desk, where the obsidian paperweight had rested earlier. Now he went into his larder and drew a little mead from an oaken barrel into a saucer. He sweetened it with honey. He put it on his desk, then went out into the corridor and breathed deeply at the window again.

Holding his breath, he came back in and used the tweezers to pour all but the last three or four grains of Dragon Sand into the honey-sweetened mead. Then he opened another drawer of his desk and removed a fresh packet, which was empty. Then, reaching all the way to the back of this drawer, he brought out a very special box.

The fresh packet was bewitched, but its magic was not very strong. It would hold the Dragon Sand safely only for a short while. Then it would begin to work on the paper. It would not set it alight, not inside the box; there would not be air enough for that. But it would smoke and smolder, and that would be enough. That would be fine.

Flagg’s chest was thudding for air, but he still spared a moment to look at this box and congratulate himself. He had stolen it ten years ago. If you had asked him at the time why he took it, he would have known no more than he knew why he had shown Thomas the secret passage that ended behind the dragon’s head- that instinct for mischief had told him to take it and that he would find a use for it, so he had. After all those years in his desk, that useful time had come.

PETER was engraved across the top of the box.

Sasha had given it to her boy; he had left it for a moment on a table in a hallway when he had to run down the hallway after something or other; Flagg came along, saw it, and popped it into his pocket. Peter had been grief-stricken, of course, and when a prince is upset-even a prince who is only six years old-people take notice. There had been a search, but the box had never been found.

Using the tweezers, Flagg carefully poured the last few grains of Dragon Sand from the original packet, which had been wholly enchanted, into the packet which had been only incompletely enchanted. Then he went back to the window in the corridor to draw fresh breath. He did not breathe again until the fresh packet had been laid in the antique wooden box, the tweezers laid in there beside it, the top of the box slowly closed, and the original packet disposed of in the sewer.

Flagg was hurrying now, but he felt secure enough. Mouse, sleeping; box, closed; incriminating evidence safely latched inside. It was very well.

Pointing the little finger of his left hand at the mouse lying stretched out on his desk like a fur rug for pixies, Flagg commanded: “Wake.”

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