The Prophecy (8 page)

“Dragon’s teeth,” the bard breathed, staring into one of the cluttered, paper-strewn rooms. “You’ll never find anything in this mess. It would take years.”

“It did,” Perryn told him. “I’m going to organize it someday. But I remember almost exactly where the book with the location of the king’s tomb is. Here, in this room. And I think there’s a map in here that shows the road to the dragon’s valley as well.”

Lysander followed him in. “Don’t you need light?”

“We don’t dare light a candle,” said Perryn, scanning the shelves of books and scrolls. “I’m the only one who ever comes here, so anyone who sees it would be bound to investigate. There’s enough moonlight to read by, if I can…ah, this is it.”

He carried the heavy book over to the window, perched it on the sill, and began flipping pages. “Twenty-third king, laws made…Twenty-fourth king…Twenty-sixth king, coronation…Here it is! Twenty-seventh king, buried.” He read rapidly. “Lysander, this is wonderful! The tomb of the twenty-seventh king is in the foothills, in the same direction as the dragon’s lair! We’ll hardly have to go out of our way at all.”

He turned to the bard.

Lysander stared at him, an odd expression on his face. “You really are Prince Perryndon, aren’t you? You really are!”

“
I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE REALLY PRINCE PERRYNDON
!” the bard exclaimed, for perhaps the dozenth time.

He had said it when they slipped into Perryn’s room to get some warm winter clothing and another water flask. He had said it as they crawled out through the narrow sewer, rejoined Prism, and hiked several exhausting miles past the borders of the castle lands. And now, as they sat around the fire and dried their wet, muddy clothes, he was still saying it.

“I knew it at once,” Prism told the bard. “Anyone with such a gentle manner, who showed such courtesy—and under some very adverse circumstances, I might add—”

“I know, I know,” the bard grumbled. “Noble born and all that. But I still can’t believe—”

“Let’s talk about what we’re going to do next,” said Perryn hastily. “If we’re going to rob a tomb we’ll need picks and shovels and things, won’t we?”

“Why didn’t you get them at the castle?” asked Prism. “You brought lots of other things.” She gazed disdainfully at the damp, woolen clothes that festooned the bushes.

“Too big,” Perryn told her. “Getting the clothes, the book, and the map out was hard enough, but we had to have them.” He wrapped his arms around himself, but the chill he felt had little to do with the cold night air. Seeing the heavy bolt Cedric had fastened on the door of his room had shaken him.

“What book?”

Perryn fished the slim volume out of its canvas wrapping. “
Medicinal Uses of the Waters of the Black Bog
. I thought I remembered seeing it.”

“That’s the first time I’ve heard you talk about a book without mentioning the author,” said Lysander.

“It’s anonymous.”

“How very reassuring.”

“Don’t worry, lots of the old books are anonymous. It talks about dosage, but not for anything as big as a dragon. Maybe I can boil it down, to concentrate it. And I was right when I said that black-bog water never killed anyone.”

“No wonder it’s anonymous—he’s wrong. The black bog has killed dozens of people.”

“Only when they fell in and drowned. This tells about a little girl who accidentally drank too much of it and slept for five weeks. They poked a hollow reed down her throat to feed her so she wouldn’t starve, and when she woke up she was fine.”

“But why did you bring the map and the laundry?” Prism asked.

“We’ll need winter clothes because the dragon’s lair is in the high mountains, where the snow never melts entirely. Dragons can’t endure heat. That’s why they live in the northern mountains. Idris is far too warm for them. No one really knows why this dragon came here in the first place, or why it’s stayed so many years. Though some of my father’s advisers have theories. But that’s why the dragon seldom raids in the summer, and why his raids on the first cold nights in autumn are so fierce. Because of his hunger, and his anger over his summer-long fast. That’s why we need the map as well—not many people live around there, not anymore. We can’t depend on being able to ask for directions.”

“You’re really going after the dragon?” Lysander asked. “But you’re Prince Perryndon! You’re your father’s only child. His only heir. What happens to Idris if you get killed?”

“What will happen to Idris if the dragon
isn’t
killed?” Perryn asked. “Besides, the prophecy doesn’t say anything about me—just you, Prism, and the sword.”

And why, he wondered, should that suddenly make him feel uneasy? It wasn’t his fault the prophecy didn’t name him, and even if it had, a scholar wouldn’t do them much good in the fighting. His job was to bring them together, and that was all. But Perryn still had to push aside an absurd feeling of being left out.

“You can do it,” he told Lysander firmly.

“Not me,” said Lysander. “Prince or no prince, I’m not fighting the dragon. I want to live and go south.”

“But you will help me get the Sword of Samhain, won’t you? You did promise that much.”

“Certainly.” The bard grinned. “Anything you say, My Prince. We need a pick and shovel? Torches, too. It’s going to be dark in that tomb.”

Perryn scowled. “That was too easy. What aren’t you telling me?”

“Perryn, you’re not going to find the Sword of Samhain.” Lysander’s voice was suddenly serious. “It’s the greatest weapon in the history of Idris. It was forged by Samhain the smith, in the elder days.” The bard’s voice grew dreamy and his eyes shone. “Half the heroes of legend used it; there are hundreds of songs about its deeds. Rhyden defeated the army of the sea people with the Sword of Samhain. It slew the giant Orok, at Lysar ford. If you had the Sword of Samhain, you probably
could
slay the dragon. A man could do anything with that sword—and all the great warriors knew it. The tomb it was buried in must have been robbed dozens of times. Even if we do find the tomb, and with your directions I suppose we might, the sword won’t be there. Not that sword.”

“But you’ll help us look?”

“Why not? Grave robbing sounds like the safest thing you’ve asked me to do so far. There are several villages between here and the foothills, so I can sing for the equipment we need.”

“Lysander, that may not…ah…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

IT WAS RAINING WHEN THEY REACHED THE FIRST
village. Lysander wanted to go straight to an inn, but Perryn insisted he wait with Prism while Perryn checked out the town. At least the rain made it seem natural for him to pull his hood over his face.

Perryn found the public message board and gazed at the poster in horror. Someone had earned ten gold.

The Prince is believed to be traveling with a bard, a tall, thin man with light brown hair.
Perryn read the rest of the poster and shuddered. They didn’t have a picture of Lysander, but the description was a good one, and combined with the sketch of Perryn…

He had no choice now—he had to tell the bard. With a quick look around to be sure no one was watching, Perryn pulled down the poster and tucked it into his belt. Carefully concealing his face, he hurried out of the town.

“
HAVE YOU SATISFIED YOURSELF THAT THIS VILLAGE
is worthy of our humble efforts, Your Highness? May we go and get out of the rain now?” Lysander shivered elaborately.

“No, we can’t,” said Perryn. “You can’t go into this town—at least, not carrying that harp—and I can’t go in at all. We’ll pass it by and find shelter in a barn or something.”

The bard’s jaw dropped. “But why? Perryn, what’s going on?”

“I should have told you sooner,” Perryn confessed. “Above all, a scholar respects truth. But I was…it’s difficult.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“I’ll do better than that; I’ll show you.” Perryn handed the poster to the bard.

Lysander unfolded it and began to read. His eyes widened. His mouth opened and closed. Angry color flooded his cheeks.

“What does it say?” asked Prism.

“Well, you see—” Perryn began.

“Kidnapping!” the bard howled. “I’m wanted for kidnapping! Dead or alive. They’ll kill me. Two hundred gold pieces. They’ll stand in line to kill me!”

He threw down the poster and glared at Perryn.

“I’ll tell them you’re innocent,” said Perryn. “It will all be cleared up. But until it is—”

“Until it is, I won’t be able to show my face from one end of Idris to the other!”

“Many people could fit that description. As long as you claim to be something besides a bard—”

“How am I supposed to eat, if I can’t sing without being arrested—or worse!—by every man in the room who’d like to get his hands on two hundred gold pieces? Two hundred! I could live very well on two hundred gold pieces myself.”

Prism gasped. “Are you suggesting—”

“If you turn me in, I’ll tell them you really did kidnap me,” Perryn said.

Lysander scowled at him, but Perryn straightened his shoulders and met the bard’s gaze squarely. It was Lysander who finally looked away.

“I didn’t mean it. But blast it, Perryn. Why are you doing this? Why—”

“There’s something else I need to tell you. The man who’s hunting me, Cedric, the master of arms….”

LYSANDER GREW CALMER AS PERRYN TOLD HIS TALE
.

“There’s only one thing that makes me believe a word of that story,” he said when Perryn finished.

“What?”

“You said your arms master signed that letter Cerdic.”

“So?”

“Cerdic is a Norse name.”

Yet another bit of information that wasn’t in any of Perryn’s books. After several weeks in Lysander’s company, he was beginning to realize that bardic knowledge could be the equal of a library—in some ways even better.

“We haven’t been in a town since we went into the forest,” said Perryn. “Cedric must have lost our trail by now. Don’t you think so?”

“I think that you’re going to be assassinated,” said the bard. “And I’m going to be executed for kidnapping. But we’ll certainly avoid towns from now on. Or maybe…” He looked Perryn over thoughtfully. “If I don’t admit I’m a bard and you change your appearance…it’s only those spectacles that are distinctive, because so few people your age wear them. If you took them off—”

“I’d be tripping over chairs and talking to the cloak rack,” Perryn told him. “They’d guess.”

“All right,” said Lysander. “I have a little money left. You wait here with Prism and my harp and I’ll simply buy what we need.” He handed his harp to Perryn and vanished, grumbling, into the rain.

“I don’t wish to cast aspersions on anyone’s character,” said Prism softly. “But are you sure…”

“Yes,” said Perryn. “He’s a true bard.”
He has to be. Otherwise, it’s all been for nothing.

LYSANDER’S MONEY WAS ENOUGH TO PURCHASE
food, but no more. In the end they were forced to steal a pick, a shovel, and three torches from a farmer’s shed.

“We can’t even leave him something else in exchange,” said Perryn regretfully. “We’ll need everything we have in the mountains.”

“Maybe there’ll be some junk left in the tomb,” Lysander consoled him. “Things that a grave robber wouldn’t have bothered with hundreds of years ago might be valuable now. And we can return the tools on our way back.”

Prism sniffed. “It’s still very dishonest. As a unicorn, I can have nothing to do with such things.”

“Nobody asked you to,” the bard retorted. “There’s no way you could help, except…maybe you could carry a torch. We could tie it to your horn.”

“I will have nothing to do with stolen goods,” said Prism.

“Of all the—”

“But you’re helping us look for the tomb,” Perryn pointed out, “even though you know we plan to…ah, borrow what’s there.”

Prism considered this carefully. “If you were not the Prince of Idris, I would probably refuse.”

“Snob,” the bard muttered.

The unicorn ignored him. “But since you are the direct heir of Albion, the twenty-seventh warrior-king, you have a right to the tomb’s contents. So I will be honored to assist Your Highness.”

IT TOOK THEM TWO MORE DAYS TO REACH THE
valley, and when they got there, they couldn’t find the tomb.

“The directions said that the shadow of Hevyd’s sword would touch the door at sunset.” Perryn frowned. “It’s sunset, and there is Hevyd’s sword.” He gestured toward the spire of rock that rose from the valley floor. Even without the map’s identification, he’d have known it for what it was. The tip of its shadow darkened the ground at his feet—the flat ground of an open meadow. Not a barrow mound in sight. “So where’s the tomb?”

“Maybe it’s completely buried.” Lysander pulled his heavy cloak closer. A few snow drifts still lingered in the foothills. With the sun’s departure the night was growing cold.

“We should be able to see the top of the mound, at least.”

“Maybe Hevyd’s sword moved,” said the bard.

“Nonsense,” Perryn snapped. “It might have worn down a bit over the years, but—”

“So maybe the sun moved! Maybe the tomb moved! Maybe the directions are completely wrong. We’ve been searching this valley for hours and we can’t find the tomb. Can we leave now?”

“If you don’t have any helpful suggestions,” Prism remarked. “You’d do better to—”

“Of course!” Perryn shouted. “What a fool I am! Why didn’t I think of it? The sun does move!”

“What?” The others stared at him.

“It does! It’s mapped on my globe of the stars. As the world moves around the sun it gets…never mind. Let me think a minute. It’s spring now so the sun’s almost at equinox. In the summer it would go that way, so the shadow would move in an arc that way. In the winter it would be the opposite. Lysander, what time of year was the twenty-seventh king buried?”

“How should I…wait! The song talks about ladies clad in drifting silks. They held the funeral feast outside because the crowd was too big for the hall. They couldn’t do that in the snow. High summer, from the sound of it.”

“Then it’s this way.” Perryn snatched up the shovel. “Come on!”

The tomb had been dug into the side of a hill. The entrance was within ten feet of the place where Perryn told them to start looking.

Lysander fingered the carving on the lintel, the only part of the door that showed above the ground.

“Start digging.” Perryn sank his shovel into the fall of earth that blocked it.

Despite Prism’s comments on the impropriety of their conduct, they made good progress. The crescent moon had barely risen when they finished.

Perryn stared at the huge stone doors in awe. “Are they sealed?”

“There’s one way to find out.” Lysander grabbed one of the ornate iron handles and heaved. With a resounding clank, the handle broke. Lysander fell over. Prism snickered.

“It’s rusted through,” said the bard, examining it. “All right, moon beam, if you’re so smart you open the door.”

“If you wish.” Prism stepped forward delicately, inserted the tip of her horn into the narrow crack between the doors, and pried.

The door grated and the hinges squealed, but it opened. The moist air that sighed from the tomb was colder than the breeze off the snowdrifts.