The Eyes of the Dragon

by Stephen King

  Peter went to the door of his cell, rapped, and after some conversation with Beson, was given the inkpot and dirty quill pen again. Beson did more muttering about being nothing but a damned messenger boy, but he was not really unhappy about the situation. There might be another two guilders in this for him.

  "If them two write back and forth long enough, I guess I could get rich arter it," he said to no one at all, and roared laughter in spite of his aching head.

  61

  Peyna unfolded Peter's second note and saw that this time the prince had left off both of their names. That was very well. The boy learned fast. As he read the note itself, his eyebrows shot up.

  Perhaps your request to know my business is presumptuous, perhaps not. It matters little, since I am at your mercy. Here are the two things your eight guilders per year are to purchase:

  1. I want to have my mother's dollhouse. It always took me to pleasant places and pleasant adventures, and I loved it much as a boy.

  2. I would like to have a napkin brought with my meals--a proper royal napkin. The crest may be removed, if you like.

  These are my requests.

  Peyna read this note over and over again before throwing it into the fire. He was troubled by it because he did not understand it. The boy was up to something . . . or was he? What could he want with his mother's dollhouse? So far as Peyna knew, it was still in storage somewhere in the castle, gathering dust under a sheet, and there could be no reason not to give it to him--not, that was, if a good man was charged with going through it carefully first, to make sure all the sharp things--tiny knives and such--were removed from it. He remembered quite well how enchanted Peter had been with Sasha's dollhouse as a very young boy. He also remembered--vaguely, very vaguely--that Flagg had protested that it was hardly fitting for a boy who would someday be King to be playing with dolls. Roland had gone against Flagg's advice that time . . . wisely, Peyna thought, for Peter had given the dollhouse up, all in good time.

  Until now.

  Has he gone mad, then?

  Peyna did not think so.

  The napkin, now . . . that he could understand. Peter had always insisted upon a napkin at every meal, always spread it neatly on his lap like a small tablecloth. Even when on camping trips with his father, Peter had insisted on a napkin. So oddly like Peter not to ask for better food than the normal poor prison rations, as almost any other noble or royal prisoner would have done before asking for anything else. No, he had asked for a napkin instead.

  That insistence on always being neat . . . on always having a napkin . . . that was his mother's doing. I'm sure of it. Do the two go together, somehow? But how? Napkins . . . and Sasha's dollhouse. What do they mean?

  Peyna did not know, but that absurd feeling of hope remained. He kept remembering that Flagg had not wanted Peter to have the dollhouse as a little boy. Now, years later, here was Peter asking to have it again.

  There was another thought wrapped up inside this, as neatly as filling is wrapped up in a tart. It was a thought Peyna hardly dared to entertain. If--just if--Peter had not murdered his father, who did that leave? Why, the person who had originally owned that hideous poison, of course. A person who would have been nothing in the Kingdom if Peter had followed his father . . . a person who was nearly everything now that Thomas sat on the throne in Peter's place.

  Flagg.

  But this thought was hideous to Peyna. It suggested that justice had somehow gone wrong, and that was bad. But it also suggested that the simple logic in which he had always prided himself had been washed away in the revulsion he had felt at the sight of Peter's tears, and this idea--the idea that he had made the single most important decision of his career on the basis of emotion rather than fact--was much worse.

  What harm can there be in his having the dollhouse, as long as the sharp things are removed?

  Peyna drew his writing materials to him and wrote briefly. Beson had another two guilders to drink up--already he had been paid half the sum he would receive for the prince's little favors each year. He looked forward to more correspondence, but there was no more.

  Peter had what he wanted.

  62

  As a child Ben Staad had been a slim, blue-eyed boy with curly blond hair. The girls had been sighing and giggling over him since he was nine years old. "That'll stop soon enough," Ben's father said. "All the Staads make handsome enough lads, but he'll be like the rest of us when he gets his growth, reckon--his hair'll darken to brown and he'll go around squintin' at everything and he'll have all the luck of a fat pig in the King's slaughtering pen."

  But neither of the first two predictions came true. Ben was the first Staad male in several generations to remain as blond at seventeen as he had been at seven, and who could tell a brown hawk from an auger hawk at four hundred yards. Far from developing a nearsighted squint, his eyes were amazingly keen . . . and the girls still sighed and giggled over him as much now, at seventeen, as they had when he was nine.

  As for his luck . . . well, that was another matter. That most of the Staad men had been unlucky, at least for the last hundred years or so, was beyond argument. Ben's family thought that Ben might be the one to redeem them from their genteel poverty. After all, his hair hadn't darkened and his eyes hadn't grown dim, so why should he not escape the curse of bad luck as well? And after all, Prince Peter was his friend, and Peter would someday be King.

  Then Peter was tried and convicted of his father's murder. He was in the Needle before any of the bewildered Staad family could get their minds around what had happened. Ben's father, Andrew, went to Thomas's coronation, and he came home with a bruise on his cheek--a bruise his wife thought it might be prudent not to speak of.

  "I'm sure Peter's innocent," Ben said that night at supper. "I simply refuse to believe--"

  The next moment he was sprawling on the floor, his ear ringing. His father was towering over him, pea soup dripping from his mustache, his face so red it was almost purple, and Ben's baby sister, Emmaline, was crying in her high chair.

  "Don't mention the murdering whelp's name again in this house," his father said.

  "Andrew!" his mother cried. "Andrew, he doesn't understand--"

  His father, normally the kindest of men, turned his head and stared at Ben's mother. "Be quiet, woman," he said, and something in his voice made her sit down again. Even Emmaline stopped crying.

  "Father," Ben said quietly, "I can't even remember the last time you struck me. It's been ten years, I think, maybe longer. And I don't think you ever struck me in anger, until now. But it doesn't change my mind. I don't believe--"

  Andrew Staad raised one warning finger. "I told you not to mention his name," he said, "and I meant it, Ben. I love you, but if you say his name, you'll be leaving my house."

  "I'll not say it," Ben replied, getting up, "but because I love you, Da'. Not because I'm scared of you."

  "Leave off!" Mrs. Staad cried, more frightened than ever. "I won't have the two of you bickering this way! Do you want to drive me insane?"

  "No, Mother, don't worry, it's over," Ben said. "Isn't it, Da'?"

  "It's over," his father said. "You're a good son in all things, Ben, and always have been, but mention him not."

  There were things Andy Staad felt he couldn't tell his son--although Ben was seventeen, Andy still saw him as a boy. He would have been surprised if he'd known that Ben understood his reasons for striking out quite well.

  Before the unfortunate turn of events of which you now know, Ben's friendship with the prince had already begun changing things for the Staads. Their Inner Baronies farm had once been very large. Over the last hundred years, they had been forced to sell the land off, a piece at a time. Now fewer than sixty reels remained, most of that mortgaged.

  But over the last ten years or so, things had gradually improved. Bankers who had been threatening first became willing to extend the outstanding mortgages, and to even offer new loans at interest rates so cheap they were unheard of. It had hurt And
rew Staad bitterly to see the land of his ancestors whittled away reel by reel, and it had been a happy day for him when he was able to go to Halvay, the owner of the next farm over, and tell him that he had changed his mind about selling him the three reels Halvay had wanted to buy for the last nine years. And he knew who he had to thank for these wonderful changes, too. His son . . . his son who was a close friend of the prince who also happened to be the King-in-waiting.

  Now they were only the unlucky Staads again. If that had been all, only a case of things going back to the way they had been, he could have stood up under it without striking his son at the dinner table . . . an act of which he was already ashamed. But things weren't going to go back to the way they had been. Their position had worsened.

  He had been lulled when the bankers had stopped behaving like sheep instead of wolves. He had borrowed a great deal of money, some to buy back land which he had already sold, some to install things like the new windmill. Now, he felt sure, the bankers would take off their sheepskins, and instead of losing the farm a piece at a time, he might lose it all at once.

  Nor was that all. Some instinct had told him to forbid any of his family members to go to Thomas's coronation and he had listened to that inner voice. Tonight he was glad.

  It had happened after the coronation, and he supposed he should have expected it. He went into a meadhouse to have a drink before starting home. He was very depressed by the whole sorry business of the King's murder and Peter's imprisonment; he felt that he needed a drink. He had been recognized as Ben's father.

  "Did yer son help his friend do the deed, Staad?" one of the drunks had called, and there had been nasty laughter.

  "Did he hold the old man while the prince poured the burnin' pizen down his thrut?" one of the others called out in turn.

  Andrew had put his mug down half empty. This was not a good place to be. He would leave. Quickly.

  But before he could get out, a third drunk--a giant of a man who smelled like a pile of moldy cabbages--pulled him back.

  "And how much did you know?" this giant had asked in a low, rumbling voice.

  "Nothing," Andrew said. "I know nothing about this business, and neither does my son. Let me pass."

  "You'll pass when--and if--we decide to let yer pass," the giant said, and shoved him backward into the waiting arms of the other drunks.

  The pummeling then began. Andy Staad was pushed from one to the next, sometimes slapped, sometimes elbowed, sometimes tripped. No one quite dared to go as far as punching him, but they came close; he had seen in their eyes how badly they had wanted to. If the hour had been later and they had been drunker, he might have found himself in very serious trouble indeed.

  Andrew was not tall, but he was broad-shouldered and well muscled. He calculated that he might be able to dust off any two of these idlers in a fair fight--with the exception of the giant, and he thought that perhaps he could give even that fellow a run for his money. One or two, possibly even three . . . but there were eight or ten there in all. If he had been Ben's age, full of pride and hot blood, he still might have had a go at them. But he was forty-five, and did not relish the thought of creeping home to his family beaten within an inch of his life. It would hurt him and frighten them, and both things would be to no purpose--it was just the Staad luck come home with a vengeance, and there was nothing to do but endure it. The barkeeper stood watching it all, doing nothing, not attempting to put a stop to it.

  At last they had let him escape.

  Now he feared for his wife . . . his daughter . . . and most of all for his son Ben, who would be the prime target for bullies such as those. If it'd been Ben in there instead of me, he thought, they would have used their fists, all right. They would have used their fists and beaten him unconscious . . . or worse.

  So, because he loved his son and was afraid for him, he had struck him and threatened to drive him from the house if Ben ever mentioned the prince by name again.

  People are funny, sometimes.

  63

  What Ben Staad didn't already understand abstractly about this strange new state of affairs he discovered very concretely the next day.

  He had driven six cows to market and sold them for a good price (to a stockman who didn't know him, or the price mightn't have been so good). He was walking toward the city gates, when a bunch of loitering men set upon him, calling him murderer and accomplice and names even less pleasant.

  Ben did well against them. They beat him quite badly in the end--there were seven of them--but they paid for the privilege with bloody noses, black eyes, and lost teeth. Ben picked himself up and went home, arriving after dark. He ached all over, but he was, all things considered, rather pleased with himself.

  His father took one look at him and knew exactly what had happened. "Tell your mother you fell down," he said.

  "Aye, Da'," Ben said, knowing his mother would not believe any such story.

  "And after this, I'll take the cows to market, or the corn, or whatever we have to take to market . . . at least until the bankers come an' take the place out from under us."

  "No, Da'," Ben said, just as calmly as he had said Aye. For a young man who had taken a bad beating, he was in a very strange mood indeed--almost cheerful, in fact.

  "What do you mean, telling me no?" his father asked, thunderstruck.

  "If I run or hide, they'll come after me. If I stand my ground, they'll grow tired soon enough and look for easier sport."

  "If someone draws a knife from his boot," Andrew said, voicing his greatest fear, "you'll never live to see them grow tired of it, Benny."

  Ben put his arms around his father and hugged him tight.

  "A man can't outsmart the gods," Ben said, quoting one of Delain's oldest proverbs. "You know that, Da'. And I'll fight for P . . . for him you'd not have me mention."

  His father looked at him sadly and said, "You'll never believe it of him, will you?"

  "No," Ben said steadfastly. "Never."

  "I think you've become a man while I wasn't looking," his father said. "It's a sad way to have to become a man, scuffling in the streets of the market with gutter louts. And these are sad times that have come to Delain."

  "Yes," Ben said. "They are sad times."

  "Gods help you," Andrew said, "and gods help this unlucky family."

  64

  Thomas had been crowned near the end of a long, bitter winter. On the fifteenth day of his reign, the last of that season's great storms fell on Delain. Snow fell fast and thick, and long after dark the wind continued to scream, building drifts like sand dunes.

  At nine o'clock on that bitter night, long after anyone sensible should have been out, there was a fist began to fall on the front door of the Staad house. It was not light or timid, that fist; it hammered rapidly and heavily on the stout oak. Answer me and be quick, it said. I haven't all night.

  Andrew and Ben sat before the fire, reading. Susan Staad, wife of Andrew and mother of Ben, sat between them, working at a sampler which would read GODS BLESS OUR KING when finished. Emmaline had long since been put to bed. The three of them looked up at the knock, then around at each other. There was only curiosity in Ben's eyes, but both Andrew and Susan were instantly, instinctively afraid.

  Andrew rose, putting his reading glasses in his pocket.

  "Da'?" Ben asked.

  "I'll go," Andrew said.

  Let it only be some traveler, lost in the dark and seeking shelter, he hoped, but when he opened the door a soldier of the King stood there on the stoop, stolid and broad-shouldered. A leather helmet--the helmet of a fighting man--clung to his head. There was a shortsword in his belt, near to hand.

  "Your son," he said, and Andrew felt his knees buckle.

  "Why do you want him?"

  "I come from Peyna," the soldier said, and Andrew understood that this was all the answer he was to have.

  "Da'?" Ben asked from behind him.

  No, Andrew thought miserably, please, this is too much bad luck, not m
y son, not my son--

  "Is that the boy?"

  Before Andrew could say no--useless as that would have been--Ben had stepped forward.

  "I am Ben Staad," he said. "What do you want with me?"

  "You must come with me," the soldier said.

  "Where?"

  "To the house of Anders Peyna."

  "No!" his mother cried from the doorway of their small living room. "No, it's late, it's cold, the roads are full of snow--"

  "I have a sleigh," the soldier said inexorably, and Andrew Staad saw the man's hand drop to the shaft of his shortsword.

  "I'll come," Ben said, getting his coat.

  "Ben--" Andrew began, thinking: We'll never see him again, he's to be taken away from us because he knew the prince.

  "It will be all right, Da'," Ben said, and hugged him. And when Andrew felt that young strength embracing him, he could almost believe it. But, he thought, his son had not learned fear yet. He had not learned how cruel the world could be.

  Andrew Staad held his wife. The two of them stood in the doorway and watched Ben and the soldier break their way through the drifts toward the sleigh, which was only a shadow in the dark with lanterns glowing eerily on either side. Neither of them spoke as Ben climbed up on one side, the soldier on the other.

  Only one soldier, Andrew thought, that's something. Maybe it's only for questioning that they want him. Pray it's only for questioning that they want my son!

  The Staads stood in silence, membranes of snow blowing around their ankles, as the sleigh pulled away from the house, the flames in the lanterns jiggling, the sleigh bells jingling.

  When they were gone, Susan burst into tears.

  "We'll never see him again," she sobbed. "Never, never! They've taken him! Damn Peter! Damn him for what he's brought my son to! Damn him! Damn him!"

  "Shh, mother," Andrew said, holding her tightly. "Shh. Shh. We'll see him before morning. By noon at the latest."

  But she heard the quiver in his voice and cried all the harder. She cried so hard she woke little Emmaline up (or maybe it was the draft from the open door), and it was a very long time before Emmaline would go back to sleep. At last Susan slept with her, the two of them in the big bed.