Chronicles of the Red King #3: Leopards' Gold (12 page)

There was an expectant hush as Friar Gereint unfolded the paper that Cedric handed to him.

The friar looked up and said, “Guanhamara, Petrello, Tolly, and Vyborn, you will please attend the king in the Hall of Corrections.”

“Hall of Corrections?” squeaked Tolly.

“Now?” asked Guanhamara.

“Hall of Corrections. Now!” Friar Gereint affirmed.

Cedric marched out and the four children followed him. As soon as they were in the courtyard, Cedric nodded imperiously at the Hall of Corrections and, turning his back on the children, strode away, his nose still in the air.

“Why the Hall of Corrections?” said Tolly. “Have we done something wrong?”

“You’re always doing something wrong,” muttered Vyborn.

Tolly caught Petrello’s warning eye and didn’t bother to reply.

The guard gave them a suspicious look as they filed into the hall, and Petrello remembered the rat. The king was already there, sitting on one of his high-backed chairs at the far end of the room. The queen was beside him. Petrello had half expected the chancellor to be in attendance, but their parents were alone.

The king beckoned and the children moved closer to him. All at once, there was a shout from outside, followed by a roar of anger. A heated argument began and Cafal came loping into the hall.

“Cafal, what is the altercation?” asked the king.

“It’s about the w-wolf, Father,” Cafal stammered. “Borlath doesn’t want it to come in — nor d-did I. But the guard wouldn’t pr-prevent it.”

The king couldn’t suppress a smile. “Greyfleet will do no harm, Cafal. You know that.”

“I suppose,” mumbled Cafal.

The next moment, Borlath burst into the hall, followed by Amadis and his wolf.

“Greyfleet must remain by the door,” the king commanded.

Amadis murmured softly to the wolf, who dropped to his haunches just inside.

Olga shuffled in. Giving the wolf a wide berth and a grimace, she joined her brothers and sisters. They stood in a half circle: Amadis and Guanhamara in the center, Cafal and Olga at either end.

“Is Lilith not with you?” the queen asked Olga.

“Indisposed,” mumbled Olga.

The queen clicked her tongue.

For a few moments, the king tapped the arms of his chair. His heavy rings on the wood made the sound of a small drum. At last he said, “You will be wondering why I have chosen the Hall of Corrections to talk to you.”

“Why?” asked Borlath in a surly voice.

“Because you, my children, need correction,” said the king.

“Some of us are men and women now,” Borlath argued. “We can live as we wish, without correction.”

The queen’s eyes flashed. “King Timoken is still your father. He is your king.”

Borlath grunted. Cafal sniffed.

The king looked hard at his children, searching each face. “Some of you have forgotten the advice I gave you when you were younger. Can anyone tell me what it was?”

Why did no one speak? Was it guilt, or obstinacy? Or was each one reluctant to shame the others? Petrello remembered every word the king had said, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak.

It was Guanhamara who broke the awful silence. “You told us that one day we might develop a powerful talent, quite outside the range that other people might expect. And that if we did acquire this talent, we must be thankful for it, and never use it to cause grief or pain or worry. And we promised to abide by your rules.”

The king had a special affection for his youngest daughter. He tried not to show it, but anyone could see how his face softened when she spoke. “Yes, Guanhamara,” he said. “And I believe that recently your imagination has taken flight?”

“It has, Father.” Guanhamara smiled. “And I’m sorry if I did something to offend, but I only used my talent in … well, mostly, in defense.”

“And perhaps some fun,” said the queen.

“But I didn’t break my promise,” said Guanhamara. “At least I didn’t mean to.”

The king turned his attention to Vyborn. “And you, Vyborn, you have caused great distress.”

The others looked at the king’s youngest child. Vyborn screwed up his nose and looked at his feet. Petrello had an awful feeling that Vyborn was going to grow hooves again, but his feet stayed well inside his boots.

“I don’t want to punish any of you,” the king went on, “and so I am commanding you to honor your promises. The people who live in our castle are not to be tormented or harassed or put to any inconvenience. Is that understood? You are no better than them, you just happen to be the children of someone who was favored by a very special being, many, many years ago.”

Silence again as the king’s children considered their father’s words. Borlath swung from one heavy foot to the other. Cafal tried unsuccessfully to copy him. Greyfleet gave a soft whine and Vyborn sneezed. Tolly scratched his back.

They were about to be dismissed. It only remained for each of them to reaffirm their promises, but all at once, Guanhamara said, “And what about poor Gunfrid? Will Lilith be punished? Because what she did was more than torment, it was attempted murder. And we all know that it was Amadis she meant to harm.”

For a moment, the king looked utterly disconcerted. Petrello’s heart went out to him. He could see that his father didn’t know what to do. If he punished Lilith, whose life would be in danger when she chose to vent her fury?

The queen came to the king’s rescue. Looking at her second son, she said, “Let Amadis decide.”

The king frowned. He was afraid for Amadis. “What do you say, Amadis?” he asked.

“I accept,” Amadis replied. His face was impassive. Petrello sensed that his brother had been expecting this.

The king gave him a grateful nod. “You may all go now,” he said.

They filed through the door, Borlath striding out first, as though a minor irritation had kept him from his duties, whatever they were. He ignored Lilith as she sat on a bench beside the arch into the second courtyard. She was swinging her legs as she casually bit into an apple.

The others stopped and stared at her. Petrello heard the sharp intake of breath from Amadis, who stood behind him.

When the king and queen emerged from the Hall of Corrections, they immediately saw who the others were looking at.

“Lilith, I thought you were indisposed,” roared the king.

“I was not disposed to attend your meeting,” countered Lilith.

A look of rage passed across the king’s face. He clenched his fists and uttered a stifled roar. But it was not so loud as the sound that came from Amadis: a soaring, crying wail.

And instantly, Petrello knew what would happen, what his brother had been planning all along. He could feel it in the air, hear the wings slicing through the wind, and when the eagle began to swoop, he watched in horrified fascination.

Lilith looked up. She saw the eagle and stood. She took two quick paces and then it was on her. The eagle sank its talons into the shoulders of her green and gold silk dress, and lifted her. Spreading its wings, it rose into the air while Lilith screamed and kicked and cursed her brother Amadis. But soon her voice was just a tiny whine, her figure a dot hanging beneath two wide wings, higher than any bird in the bright morning sky.

I
t was such a shocking thing. Even the king was speechless, and then the wailing began. Olga, her face creased with fury, dashed to the place where her sister had left the ground. Tugging her ragged black hair, jumping up and down in a frenzy, she screamed, “What have you done? You’ll pay for this, Amadis. You’re wicked, wicked, wicked!”

“I’m sorry, Father.” Amadis turned his back on his shrieking sister. “I’ve broken my promise not to harm.”

“You did what had to be done,” said the queen.

“There seemed to be no other way,” Amadis admitted. “Yet I know it was wrong. I swear the eagle won’t kill Lilith. She’ll be removed to a place far from here. It’ll give us time to collect our thoughts before she can do harm again.”

“It will.” The king’s voice could hardly be heard above Olga’s screams. He strode up to her, put a hand on her shoulder, and said, “Olga, calm yourself. You’ll see your sister again.”

“Wicked, wicked, wicked!” wailed the girl. “Punish him! Punish Amadis!”

“Quiet, Olga,” the king commanded.

“No, no, no!” she screamed, tearing herself away from her father’s strong hand.

There was no pacifying her. Courtiers hurried away from the dreadful spectacle of a princess gone mad. Soon, the courtyard had emptied. Only the king and queen and their eight children remained.

Olga’s distress was painful to watch. Lilith was her idol, the center of her world. How could she exist without her? She had never been pretty, but anguish made her gruesome, her eyelids swollen beneath her heavy brow, her wide mouth a gaping wound. As she dashed away from her family’s gaze, the queen guessed what might happen. “No, Olga!” she cried.

It was too late. By the time her family had caught up with her, Olga was already in the second courtyard, a playground of possibilities for someone like her, and she immediately took advantage of it. Benches and tables went flying across the cobbles; iron wheels, pokers, furnace grates, planks, ladders — everything was moving. There were cries of pain as the smiths and carpenters had their tools wrenched away from them and into the air, and then sent back to strike them. A man lay on the ground moaning, another with a bleeding head took shelter behind an upturned wagon.

The king, grasping his head, shouted until he was hoarse; the queen tried to grab her demented daughter and, for her pains, was tripped by a rolling log. The king ran to her and, lifting the queen in his arms, carried her to safety.

Amadis bounded over to the man on the ground and helped him into the storeroom behind his forge.

Petrello, Tolly, and Guanhamara watched from the archway, not knowing what to do. Behind them, Cafal began to sniffle like an animal. Vyborn jumped up and down, squealing like a pig, delirious with excitement.

Help came at last from an unexpected quarter. Borlath marched up to his sister and, grabbing both her hands, stared into her face, saying, “Olga, your sister will come back. Remember what I told you. Not long now.”

Petrello remembered that last phrase. There was something sinister about it. But it had the desired effect on Olga. She became very still, closed her mouth, and stopped crying.

“Guanhamara,” said Borlath. “Take your sister to her bedchamber.”

Guanhamara swallowed hard. “Me?” She looked at her mother.

The queen, on her feet again and dusting herself down, said, “We’ll go together.”

“She won’t cause any trouble now.” Borlath looked at Olga, his gaze intense, unblinking. “Will you, Olga?”

“What?” she mumbled.

“You won’t cause any trouble now, will you?” Borlath shook her arm, put his face close to hers. “Will you?”

“No,” said Olga, her voice quiet and flat.

The queen looked at Guanhamara.

“Here goes,” Guanhamara whispered to Petrello. “Wish me luck.”

But Olga was now quite calm. Her mother and sister took her hands and led her away quietly.

All this time, the king had been watching Borlath with undisguised surprise.

“I think Borlath put Olga in a trance,” Petrello said in a low voice.

“Didn’t know he could do that,” said Tolly.

“Another string to his bow,” Petrello remarked. “I hope he doesn’t use it too often. And did you hear what he said? He used the same words as the chancellor’s man. Chimery. ‘Not long now.’”

“It sounds bad, Trello. But why does it sound bad?”

“Off to your lessons, boys,” the king commanded. “And let’s have no more trouble today.” He frowned at Vyborn as he said this, and Vyborn gave a submissive nod.

But Petrello noticed that his youngest brother glanced at Borlath before leaving the scene, and Borlath returned the look with a secretive sort of smile.

It stayed with Petrello, that smile. It unsettled him. The look that passed between Vyborn and their oldest brother gave Petrello an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. He couldn’t concentrate on his lessons and Friar Gereint called him foolish at least three times. But Petrello found that he didn’t care. He was far more concerned with the strife that seemed to be building within his family.

At the end of the day, when Petrello stepped out of the schoolroom, there was only one person he wanted to see. The king.

Tolly and Selgi were busy playing their game of Blagard. Each had a bag of ten stones. Tolly’s were red, Selgi’s black. Selgi had invented the game, which became more complicated every time they played. Petrello had given up trying to understand it, but Tolly threw himself into the contest with gusto. The two boys sat cross-legged on the ground, throwing their small stones into the air and watching where they fell. Tolly always shrieked the loudest when his piece landed in the right place.

Guanhamara, arm in arm with Elin, asked Petrello if he was coming to visit Gunfrid.

“No,” said Petrello. “I have to do something.”

Guanhamara put her head to one side, the way she always did when she was trying to fathom her brother’s mood. “Want any help?”

“No.” Petrello smiled at his sister to soften his reply.

“Don’t miss your supper.”

“I won’t.” Petrello watched his sister and her friend walk toward the sanatorium, and then he made his way to his aunt’s garden.

Zobayda was sitting in her usual place beside the fountain. Her favorite toy, a wooden camel, stood beside her, its head touching the violet silk of her robe where it covered her knees. Zobayda’s husband, Tariq, had made the camel long ago, before he died. Sometimes Petrello wondered if a little of Tariq’s spirit remained within the wooden toy.

Zobayda was aware of everything that had occurred in the past two days. Often, it seemed that, even from a distance, she knew what had happened before she was told.

“Troubling times, Petrello.” Today, Zobayda’s face betrayed her great age. She looked very weary, and the lines on her dark skin appeared to be deeper than before.

“Something is happening to our family,” said Petrello. “A sort of madness has entered some of us, and I’m frightened, Aunt.”

“Of course you are.” She covered his hand with her long, beautiful fingers and Petrello again felt the strange, warm pressure of the jinni’s silver ring.

“It’s all his fault, isn’t it?” said Petrello, staring at the tiny face peeping above its silver wing.

“Petrello, how can you say that?” Zobayda took her hand away. “If it were not for the jinni, none of us would be here. Your father and I would never have escaped the army that captured our palace and killed our parents.”

Petrello bit his lip. “I’m sorry. But because our father has one foot in the realm of enchantments, it seems that the life that other world has given us has done us harm.”

“We can never be sure how the realm of enchantments will endow us. We must just be thankful that some of it is good.” Zobayda gave him a solemn smile. “You came here to see the king. I think he might have gone into his solarium.”

“But we are not allowed …,” Petrello began.

“Today … today …” His aunt frowned and rubbed her forehead. “Today I believe you must. The king will understand.”

“You know everything, Aunt.” Petrello already felt better for seeing her, but on his way over to the Royal Tower, he suddenly stopped, and, turning to his aunt, said, “You told me once that I might save you all, but I can’t do anything, Aunt Zobayda. Nothing, nothing, nothing. I’m just foolish Petrello.”

“Be patient,” said his aunt. “You have a gift, Petrello, though as yet I don’t understand it.”

Petrello gave her a small wave and continued on to his parents’ apartments. The guard outside was sitting on a stool, chewing sorrel. “The queen is not in residence,” he told Petrello. “She is with the princess Olga.”

“It’s the king I wish to see,” said Petrello.

“Not in residence,” said the guard.

“But my aunt …” Petrello looked back at his aunt.

“Your auntie’s eyesight isn’t that good,” said the guard, rather rudely, Petrello thought.

But Zobayda was nodding and smiling at him, and all at once Petrello had an overwhelming feeling that his aunt wanted him to go into the solarium, whether his father was there or not. So he had to find an excuse very quickly.

“It has nothing to do with Princess Zobayda’s eyesight,” Petrello said haughtily. “She lent my father a precious book, and wants me to fetch it for her.”

The guard looked at Zobayda. She smiled, nodded, and made a small pushing motion with her hand. “Very well,” he said, “but be quick about it.” And watching Petrello closely, he opened the door and let him through.

The king’s solarium was on the ground floor. Behind the twisting stairway to the upper floors, there was a small door. Petrello knew it led to the solarium, but he had never opened the door, never even touched the handle. No child had. It was an unspoken rule. But his aunt’s insistence gave him courage. He put his hand on the brass ring, turned it lightly, and the door swung open.

He was met with a darkness so complete he couldn’t see one tiny detail of what lay beyond. Perhaps there was nothing but a void waiting to swallow him up. Petrello put one foot over the threshold. He was met by a scent. What was it?
Can you smell the sun?
he wondered. Because that was all he could imagine. It was such a warm, fresh, comforting scent.

Before Petrello knew it, he was making his way down a long passage. Dull light from the open door behind him showed the faint outlines of a bricked wall, beneath his feet there were more deep red bricks. The passage turned abruptly and, deprived of light from the doorway, he was once again plunged into the dark. With one hand on the wall, he felt his way onward. The passage narrowed. He could touch both sides with his elbows.

A pillar blocked his way. He sidled past it and stepped into a bright, circular room.

Frescoes of an African kingdom adorned the walls: flat-roofed houses, palm trees, camels, monkeys, and exotic birds. Dark men in white robes. Petrello trod carefully across a floor paved in mosaics. Lines of red, orange, and yellow radiated from a huge red circle, and the same pattern was repeated in the high, vaulted ceiling, only here the central circle was not made of glass, it was open to the soft, sunset sky.

Four highly polished chests stood against the wall forming a long, low table. And this was covered with precious objects: colored jars, painted wooden boxes, golden caskets, and silver trays that held tiny creatures carved from wood and stone. At one end sat a large glass marble, a beautiful object that demanded to be touched. Petrello put out a hand, but, quicker than lightning, the gleaming head of a serpent rose from behind a chest and struck his fingers.

“Ouch!” Petrello put his bruised fingers into his mouth. “Why did you do that, Solomon?”

Solomon was the king’s pet snake and guardian of his treasures. He seldom left the Royal Tower, and when he did he was usually draped about the king’s shoulders. He was a big snake, longer than the king when they were lying down together. His skin was silver and black, his eyes like beads of jet. Only the king knew where he came from.

“All right, I won’t touch the king’s treasures,” Petrello told the snake.

A tiny fragment of Solomon’s silver skin had brushed off on Petrello’s middle finger. He regarded the small patch of silvery dust and, almost without thinking, went to the wall to wipe it off. There was a painted bird on one of the frescoes and he followed the outline of the bird with his finger. He was delighted to see how the silver dust made the bird sparkle.

And then Petrello found that he wasn’t touching the hard plaster beneath the fresco.

He could feel another finger, and it wasn’t his.