Chronicles of the Red King #3: Leopards' Gold (13 page)

P
etrello stepped back. He looked at his hand, then at the bird on the wall with its dusting of silver. He could see no finger poking through the painted plumage, and yet he had felt one. Definitely. Unless he was going mad.

“What’s going on, Solomon?” He turned to the snake, now coiled protectively about the king’s treasures. “Did you see … ?”

Petrello looked back at the fresco. “Oh!” he gasped.

Before him stood a boy. He was taller than Petrello and had pale skin and large, mud-colored eyes. His hair was dark and stuck out like a brush.

“Where have you come from?” It was Petrello’s first thought.

The boy stared at him wordlessly.

Petrello tried again. “How did you get here?”

This brought a puzzled frown to the boy’s face.

So he was a foreigner. He was certainly wearing an unusual outfit. His tight breeches were faded and a rather dirty blue. He wore no tunic and no shirt. Instead, the upper part of his body was clothed in a grass-stained white garment with short sleeves.

The boy was now staring intently at Petrello, his gaze traveling from Petrello’s curly head right down to his leather boots. He smiled and spoke a few words. Petrello thought he recognized one of them, but the boy’s language was still foreign to him.

Perhaps signs would work
, Petrello thought, but before he could try one, footsteps could be heard approaching the solarium and both boys turned to the entrance. A moment later, the king appeared.

“Father,” began Petrello, “I can explain. Aunt Zobayda said I should —”

The king raised his hand for silence. He looked astounded. When at last he found his voice, he murmured, “This has never happened before.”

“I don’t know where he came from,” said Petrello, looking at the boy. “But …”

The king shook his head. “I don’t mean that. I know where Charlie came from; we meet often. But it has only ever been us two.”

“Often?” said Petrello in a small, surprised voice. “But who is he?”

The boy was looking from the king to Petrello, with a big smile on his face.

“He is my descendant,” the king told Petrello. And then he began to speak in the boy’s unknown and mysterious language. The boy nodded and grinned at Petrello, before answering the king in long, excited sentences.

“What is he saying? Why is he here?” Petrello could hardly contain himself.

“It would take a very long time for me to explain it all,” said his father. “Charlie lives nine hundred years ahead of us, in another era. He speaks our language but it has changed considerably over the centuries. He is of my blood and through all those long years a small part of the realm of enchantments has reached some of my descendants. Charlie has been gifted with the ability to travel through images. He can touch one and travel.”

“Is the bird still there, so many centuries ahead? Don’t things fade and crumble?”

Petrello glanced at the bird with its dusting of snake silver.

The king smiled. “Not these frescoes, it seems. Our spirit ancestors have a power beyond our comprehension. They made these” — he nodded at the painted walls — “so perhaps they will last forever.”

“I touched the bird, and then Charlie’s finger,” Petrello said, still bewildered by what had happened.

The boy’s expression had changed. He was staring at Petrello with interest and amusement. He spoke again to the king, and the king, looking at Petrello, said, “Well, well! How extraordinary.”

“What?” asked Petrello.

“Charlie tells me that you remind him of a great friend of his. He can’t explain why, for this boy doesn’t have your dark skin and black hair. His eyes are wide and blue, and his hair the color of corn.”

“And his name?” asked Petrello.

Charlie seemed to understand this. “Tancred,” he said, adding several more incomprehensible words.

“And is he … ?” Petrello suddenly felt as though he was about to learn something vital, something that would bring him closer to understanding himself. “Does Tancred have a gift?”

“Yes, he is another of my descendants. He can bring thunderstorms, just as I can.”

“I see.” Petrello regarded his hands, flexed his fingers, hunched his shoulders.

The king looked concerned. “Petrello, it doesn’t mean that you will be able to do this.”

“All the same,” Petrello said cheerfully. “It’s interesting.” He gazed at his hands, as though they might give him another clue. When he looked up, Charlie had gone.

“He often goes like that,” said the king. “He seldom has time to say good-bye.”

“But why?” Petrello stared at the space their visitor had occupied only a moment before.

“He can be interrupted by a friend, or his parents, and then the link is broken, and he is whisked away.” The king looked up at the red sky as if Charlie had ascended into the air. “He is a good, honest, and cheerful person, and his accounts of life nine hundred years in the future contain much comfort.”

Petrello realized his stomach was growling. “Thank you for allowing me to meet your descendant,” he said.

“It was your aunt’s doing.” The king smiled. “You should be at supper, my son. I can hear your hunger. And, Petrello, I would like Charlie to remain our secret for now.”

“I promise not to speak of him with anyone else, Father.”

When Petrello stepped out of the Royal Tower, the guard gave him an odd look, but said nothing. Zobayda had left her seat and taken the wooden camel into her apartments. Night clouds from the north were beginning to drift into the rosy sky, and a chilly breeze had blown up.

Feeling inexplicably cheerful, Petrello strode into the second courtyard, only to find it deserted. The chaos from Olga’s furious assault had been carefully tidied, and a subdued mutter came from the workers’ dining hall.

Petrello was afraid he had missed his supper. The loud calls from his empty stomach were increasing every second. He ran through the next courtyard and furtively opened the door into the Children’s Dining Hall.

Nurse Ogle was busy wiping the youngest child’s face. Petrello hunched down and climbed over the bench into the empty space beside Tolly. A bowl of cold soup was waiting for him.

“Where’ve you been?” Tolly muttered as Petrello gulped down the soup.

“Tell you later,” said Petrello, before remembering the promise he’d made to the king. He had experienced something astonishing and unbelievable, and yet he must keep it a secret. It would be hard.

“The bread’s all gone, but I saved you some.” Tolly took a soggy roll from his lap and put it beside Petrello’s bowl.

“Thanks.” Petrello glanced at his brother. Tolly’s eyelids were red and swollen. He’d been crying.

“What’s the matter, Tolly? Last time I saw you, you were playing Blagard.”

Tolly dropped his head. He toyed with his spoon for a moment before whispering, “My back itched. It got so bad I couldn’t play anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” said Petrello.

“So I went to find Guan,” Tolly went on. “And she … and she …”

“She what?”

“She took me to the wizards for some salve.”

“And is your back better now?” Petrello peered into his brother’s unhappy face.

Tolly shook his head and a tear dropped into his bowl.

“It takes a while for Llyr’s salves to work,” said Petrello. “I know because of when I bruised my knee.”

“Nothing will work,” Tolly broke in. “We were on the steps to the aerie. The pain was so bad. It was really, really bad, Trello.” Tolly looked across the table at Guanhamara sitting opposite them.

Guanhamara smiled encouragingly. She mouthed the words,
“Don’t worry. It will be all right.”

“What does she mean?” Petrello asked his brother.

Tolly shook his head. More tears fell. Children were looking at him. Tolly suddenly twisted around, swung his legs over the bench, and ran out.

“Tolomeo, you have not had permission,” shouted Nurse Ogle.

“He’s not well, Nurse,” said Guanhamara.

“What’s it to do with you?” snapped the long-faced woman.

Petrello wanted to race after his brother but he was afraid he’d make the situation worse.

“No cheese for him tomorrow,” grunted Nurse Ogle. “Take your bowls to the pump, children. Petrello, take your brother’s.”

Petrello quickly gathered the bowls and ran to wash them at the pump. A line had formed and Guanhamara was at the end of it.

“What’s wrong with Tolly?” Petrello asked his sister.

“I can’t tell you here,” she said. “Let him show you.”

“Show me?” Petrello was mystified.

“Poor Tolly.”

Guanhamara looked so solemn, Petrello began to imagine the worst. “Has the plague come?” he asked. “Or some other horrible affliction? He had lumps on his back.”

“Sssssh!” His sister looked around but no one appeared to have heard them. There was always a lot of howling, squealing, and laughter at the pump, as children tried to splash one another.

“He’ll be in the bedchamber,” said Guanhamara as they put their clean, wet bowls back on the table. “I’ll come with you.”

They found Tolly lying on his stomach, his face turned to the wall. He’d taken off his jerkin and his loose, white shirt was bunched over his shoulder blades. Petrello sat on the edge of his brother’s bed. He looked at Guanhamara, who stood by the door.

“Does it still hurt?” Petrello asked his brother.

“The pain is going,” Tolly mumbled, “and now I’m a freak.”

“You’re not,” Petrello said firmly.

Tolly turned his head and, muffling his voice in the pillow, he said, “Look!”

Petrello lifted his brother’s shirt above his shoulder blades. In the fading daylight, he saw quite clearly that the small bony lumps he’d glimpsed in the moonlight were now covered in glossy black feathers.

“I’m a freak,” Tolly sobbed. “Trello, I’m a freak, aren’t I?”

“No,” Petrello said fiercely. “You have wings, Tolly,” and in a tone of wonder, he added, “They’ll grow and you’ll be able to fly.”

“I don’t want to,” Tolly cried. He sat up and, throwing an arm over his shoulder, tried to reach the offending wings, as though he wanted to tear them out. “The jinni’s tricked me. You’ve all been gifted in wonderful, secret ways.” He stared at his sister. “But everyone can see what I am. They’ll laugh. Father can fly, but he doesn’t have wings. Why has this happened to me?”

“Tolly, I don’t have any gift at all,” said Petrello.

“Lucky you,” Tolly muttered.

At that moment, Vyborn came in. At least half of Vyborn. He’d managed almost to become a dragon. The scales were there, and the crest on his head, and there was a bit of a tail and one wing. But only one half of his face was a dragon’s, and only one arm and one leg, so he was all lopsided. If anyone looked a freak, it was Vyborn.

Guanhamara tried not to giggle, but it was impossible. Holding back for a second made it worse. When she finally gave in, her high-pitched squeals made Petrello fall to the ground with laughter, and then even Tolly began to giggle.

“Stop it!” screeched Vyborn. “Stop it! Stop it! Why can’t I be a dragon?”

“Because you can’t remember what Eri’s dragon looks like,” said Guanhamara through her giggles, “and you’ve no imagination.” Holding her hand over her mouth, she ran into the passage, trying to stifle the laughter that kept bubbling out.

Vyborn stomped over to his bed and sat on the edge, a dejected, ridiculous half dragon. Slowly, he assumed his whole human form. “What a day,” he remarked, and flung himself facedown on the bed.

Petrello and Tolly grinned at each other, and Petrello said, “It’s going to be all right. Believe me.”

“At least it doesn’t hurt anymore,” said Tolly.

They glanced at Vyborn, wondering if he’d heard, but their small brother had already begun to snore. The effort of trying to be a dragon had worn him out.

Later that night, Petrello woke up. In spite of the extraordinary events of the day, he hadn’t found it difficult to fall asleep. It was the dream that woke him; a dream of feathers. He thought of the cloak that Wyngate always wore — a long cloak of glossy ravens’ feathers. If the king could copy it for Tolly, his wings would become part of a long, feathered cloak, and no one would guess the truth.

“Yes,” Petrello said drowsily. “A cloak of feathers.”

While the rest of the castle’s occupants were in their beds, the king was getting ready to work. He had many helmets to make, one more precious than the rest. He chose the armory for his task, and the wizard Llyr to help him.

The king sat behind a square table at the back of the room. On either side of him, candles flickered in tall, three-branched candelabra. Another candelabrum had been placed on a shelf above him. In the center of the table, the eagle helmet gleamed and twinkled, giving no hint of its deadly past.

Llyr had put bowls of smoldering incense before the two doors and on the sill. Pungent smoke drifted around the suits of armor, giving the impression of an army drowning in fog.

“Let us begin,” said the king.

Llyr picked up a large sack and came to stand beside him. The king drew the eagle helmet toward him; he folded his arms about it, closed his eyes, and bent his head so that his slim crown touched the golden eagle at the top of the helmet.