The Prophecy (3 page)

PERRYN TIED THE LAST TWO STRIPS OF BLANKET
together and tugged at the knot. It should hold. The thick wool was very strong. He slung his satchel over his shoulder, then he went to the window and lowered his improvised rope quietly down the wall. The soft scrape of cloth against stone sounded loud to him, but the wind made enough noise to mask it—and hopefully louder sounds as well—from the guards who patrolled the parapet above him.

He climbed onto the windowsill and sat, looking at the ground. He wasn’t afraid of heights exactly, but it was a long way down. Perryn wrapped both hands around the blanket strip and slid off the windowsill.

As the cloth jerked tight under his weight, the knuckles of his right hand slammed against the wall, and Perryn gritted his teeth. His shoulder swung painfully into the stone. He was heavier than he’d expected, and the satchel added even more weight. The thick blanket strip was hard to hang on to. He didn’t dare look down, and not only from fear of the height. If his glasses fell and broke, it would stop him right here. He should have thought to take them off before starting down! Some scholar he was.

The brisk breeze turned him against the wall, making him sweat with nervousness. Perryn climbed slowly down his improvised rope. He stopped looking up to see how far he had come. He never looked down. Then his groping feet slipped off the end of the blanket, causing him to gasp, even as his hands clamped tight around the rope.

The ground was farther than he’d hoped. He tried to slide his hands down, but without the bracing grip of his feet, he could barely hold on. He pushed himself away from the wall and let go.

The drop was even farther than it looked—the earth slammed into his feet, then his knees, with bruising force. Perryn sat up and rubbed his elbow. Then he rose to his knees and pushed his spectacles back into place. The palms of his hands smarted and stung. His knuckles were bruised and his arms ached. But he was down!

A grin spread across his face, then he remembered—the mirror! He snatched up his satchel and scrambled to the base of the wall, fumbling the buckle open, groping hastily through the folds of his warmest cloak. His fingertips found the silver curve, then skimmed over the cool glass—not broken. Not even cracked. Perryn barely stifled his exclamation of relief in time.

He’d almost chosen to leave the heavy mirror behind, but it had served the kings of Idris faithfully for centuries and it had certainly proved useful tonight. With luck it might show Perryn documents from his library when he needed them, or allow him to watch his father and Cedric. If he could see what measures they took to find him, he could avoid them, and if he could avoid them long enough…. His father might worry now, but that couldn’t be helped. He would have to earn his father’s belief, his trust, before he accused Cedric. And if the king worried, if he feared for Perryn’s safety, it might remind him that he had once loved his son, as well as the wife he had lost.

Yes, this was the right thing to do.

He repacked the satchel, which also contained the bread and cheese he’d been offered for dinner and the handful of coppers he was given each week to reward the servants. With careful management, it should be enough.

His father called the library a worthless waste of paper, brushing aside Perryn’s muttered arguments, but Perryn needed more information about the habits of unicorns and the location of the king’s tomb. Still, even if the mirror couldn’t help him, a true bard should know both those things.

Perryn waited for a cloud to hide the moon so he could run for the nearest clump of bushes, though he wasn’t really worried about the guards. Idris Castle was far from the Norse border. The guards looked at the sky, not down into the bushes, and in the darkness they listened for the sound of dragon wings.

Clouds covered the moon, and Perryn darted off. In a few minutes he would reach the trees. He thought of his mare, now dozing in her stall, but there was no way he could get a horse out of the stables without being caught. He would walk. Peasants walked from place to place all the time—surely a prince could do the same. There was a shortcut through the forest to the nearby village of Bramlin. If the bard had passed through there, someone might know where he went next.

Perryn was on his way.

“
EXCUSE ME
?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I get you something, young sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Money first,” he said.

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

“Then get out.”

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

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

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

“How should I know?”

Perryn’s shoulders slumped in defeat.

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

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

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