The Prophecy

by Hilari Bell

  This was the reaction he’d been trying to see for so long? His father’s love….

  “Isn’t anyone worried about me?” Perryn whispered.

  A new image flashed to the mirror’s surface. The palace housekeeper, making up his bed with her own hands though that task was far beneath her dignity. Her face was tight with distress. A groom currying Perryn’s favorite mare with more than ordinary care. One servant after another, their faces flashing over the glass, faster and faster.

  The ones who cared. The only ones who cared. Perryn laid the mirror on the grass and wept.

  “WHERE ON EARTH WERE YOU?” LYSANDER demanded the moment Perryn appeared. It had taken Perryn some time to compose himself before he returned to the camp. He prayed his reddened eyes and nose would be invisible in the firelight.

  “We were about to send out a search party,” the bard went on. “Are you feeling all right? What’s wrong?”

  Prism was silent but her ears were pricked toward Perryn, her eyes dark with concern. Perhaps there were a few who cared besides the servants.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Perryn, as the lump in his throat eased a little. “I was just…” He hesitated, but there was no longer any reason to conceal it. “I was consulting the Mirror of Idris.”

  “The Mirror?” Lysander’s brows shot up. “I thought the mirror failed after the queen…ah…”

  Sam snorted. “Cheap piece of flimflam never did work right if you ask me. If it showed you something that got you upset, you should just ignore it.”

  “No,” said Perryn wearily. “It may not show you what you ask for—not even what you need to see, always—but it shows the truth.”

  “May I see it?” Lysander asked softly. When Perryn handed it over, the bard’s expression held an awed respect as well as curiosity. “So, this is the mirror of legend. How does it work?”

  “You just speak to it,” said Perryn. “You ask for what you want to see.”

  “Hmm. Mirror, show me that pretty tavern wench from Williten.”

  Perryn had to laugh. “It only works for the kings of Idris. Here, let me…”

  He took the mirror from Lysander’s hands. “Mirror of Idris…” his voice faded as the vision formed.

  “What is it?” Lysander asked.

  “It’s the tavern maid from Williten.” If the mirror thought he needed to see her, Perryn didn’t want to know why. Heat rose into his cheeks. “I think she’s about to take a bath.”

  “What? Let me see!”

  But the mirror went dark as Lysander snatched it from Perryn’s hands.

  “I told you it wouldn’t work for you,” said Perryn, grateful that particular image was gone.

  “Spying on people that way is most improper,” Prism added.

  “Well, if you’re all going to be so prim about it,” said Lysander. “Can you show me how it works?”

  Perryn shrugged. “Mirror of Idris, show me the way to the dragon’s lair.”

  This time the image formed almost at once.

  “It’s a road,” said the bard, looking over Perryn’s shoulder. “A fork in the road. Is that the way to the dragon’s lair?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Perryn, frowning at the familiar scene. “The mirror has showed me this place several times before. It probably doesn’t mean anything at all. The mirror’s pretty erratic these days.”

  “If the mirror showed this to you several times, perhaps it’s something you need to see,” Prism suggested.

  “An empty road?”

  “A fork in the road,” said the bard, still gazing into the mirror with fascinated eyes. “Maybe it’s a metaphor—it’s trying to show you that you’ll have to make some sort of choice.”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” said Perryn. “At least, it never has before. It shows the kings of Idris what they need to see. Directly. No metaphors.”

  And my choice is already made. If he couldn’t win his father’s love, he had to earn his respect. Or he really would be worthless.

  “We’d better go to bed now. We should get an early start in the morning,” said Perryn.

  The image of the empty roads lingered in the mirror, its light glowing through the seams of Perryn’s satchel for quite some time.

  THEY SET OFF AT A BRISK PACE NEXT MORNING. Lysander carried Sam, listening to his stories eagerly, adding stanzas from ballads whenever the sword paused. He almost bumped into Perryn before he noticed the prince had stopped. “What is it?” The bard looked at the narrow gorge that followed the stream into the mountains. “Wait a minute. Isn’t this the place…?”

  “Yes,” said Perryn. “This is the place the mirror was showing me.” Apprehension shivered through his nerves. But why? The mirror had only revealed a place he was destined to find.

  “Then it was truly guiding you all along,” said the bard. “Leading you here. What is this road, anyway?”

  “According to the notes on the map, it used to be the Udo Valley Road,” Perryn told him. “But now they call it Dragon’s Gap. This road leads straight to the dragon’s valley. I’ve never been in this area before. I didn’t know what it looked like.”

  “That’s right, Prince Perryndon.”

  The bushes beside them crackled, and Perryn jumped. A familiar shriek made him wince. A skitter of small hooves, a flash of white, and Prism was gone.

  “What was that?” asked a voice from behind them. Perryn spun, looking for a place to run, but it was too late. Four horsemen were emerging from the brush beside the road—clad in the tabards of his father’s guard.

  “It looked like a unicorn!” one of them said. “I didn’t think they existed any more.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” said the leader. “Prince Perryndon, your father wants to see you. You and your companion are to come with us.”

  “But…wait a minute,” said Lysander. “That wasn’t the deal. He said I could go as soon as I had my money.”

  “Who said?” asked the leader.

  “Why Cedric, the master of arms. Your commander. We agreed that if I brought Prince Perryndon here he’d pay me two hundred gold pieces, and then I could leave.”

  “No!” Perryn cried.

  The guardsmen ignored him.

  Lysander ignored him as well. Perryn’s heart pounded sickly. The bard had to be lying…didn’t he?

  “Do you mean to tell me the money isn’t here?” Lysander went on. “Of all the idiotic, incompetent—”

  “If Master Cedric told you to bring the prince here, why does he have men guarding every road that leads into the mountains?” demanded the leader.

  “How should I know?” Lysander shrugged. “All I know is that my money was supposed to…hmm. How long since you last received orders?”

  “Four days,” said the leader, staring at Lysander suspiciously.

  “Then that explains part of it,” said Lysander. “I only met with Cedric two days ago. Your comrades have probably been recalled. Since you were already here, he didn’t need to send anyone to get the prince. What I don’t understand is why he didn’t send someone with my gold.”

  “Perhaps there wasn’t time,” said the leader. He looked as if he wasn’t certain whether to believe the bard’s story or not. Perryn couldn’t blame him for that—he wasn’t certain either. “You’d better come with us.”

  “He had two days,” Lysander complained. “If I had time to bring the prince, surely he could have sent the money.”

  “Then you’ll accompany us back to camp,” the leader said firmly.

  “I’m certainly going with you,” Lysander announced. “I’m not letting that boy out of my sight until the gold is in my hands. There’ve been too many slipups already. I assume you have a horse for me?”

  THEY BOUND PERRYN’S HANDS, AND THE LEADER tied the halter of the horse Perryn rode to the cantle of his own saddle. The guardsmen had never liked him, but they wouldn’t dare to bind their prince without orders. Cedric must be very sure of his influence over the king.

>   Perryn rode in silence. Lysander was right, the mirror had spoken true, trying to warn him about the ambush. Ambush and treachery. But since it didn’t have enough power to show the future anymore, it had only been able to show the place where his plans would fail. Perhaps the prophecy was doomed to fail from the start, in his scholarly hands. Worthless, just as his father said. But it wasn’t his will or courage that had failed.

  When could Lysander have met with Cedric? He’d hardly been out of Perryn’s sight in the last two days. Could he have slipped out of the camp at night without waking them?

  His heart cried out that Lysander was a friend who wouldn’t, couldn’t betray him. But he had to admit that the bard wasn’t always honest. And he had told Perryn repeatedly that he wouldn’t fight the dragon. What better way to escape the prophecy than this?

  Lysander chatted with the rear guard as they rode. They joked about his rusty sword, and Lysander explained that it had an old and noble history. And since he was a bard, not a swordsman, the state of the blade didn’t matter to him.

  Sam never uttered a word.

  It was dusk when Lysander pulled his horse to a stop and dismounted. He did it so casually the others rode on for almost ten feet before they noticed and reined in their horses.

  Lysander lifted his horse’s hoof.

  “What is it?” the leader called back.

  “She started to limp. Picked up a stone, I think. It’ll only take a moment.” He looked quickly at Perryn, for the first time since their capture, then glanced aside.

  Perryn turned to the leader, his heart pounding with sudden hope. “Do you know that Cedric plans to kill me?” he asked. “Or are you just his dupe?”

  The leader snorted. “I know he gives you a hard time, lad—Your Highness, but he’s not going to kill you. If you practiced a little more—”

  “I don’t mean fighting,” said Perryn. “He’s going to murder me, and make it look like an accident, because I learned that he’s really a Norse spy.”

  The leader smiled at him. “Of course he is. But may I ask why Cedric would do such a thing? The barbarians are dirt poor. They probably couldn’t scratch together a bribe big enough to tempt me, much less someone who’s getting a master of arms’ salary.”

  “It isn’t the money,” said Perryn. “He’s one of them. His real name is Cerdic, Cerdic of the Red Bear. I saw him sign a letter that way.”

  “But Cedric’s folks were poor farmers,” said the leader. “And he can’t read or write. Which means that Your Highness must be mistaken. Especially since the barbarians can’t read or write either, so even if he was a Norse spy, writing to another Norseman would be senseless. Besides, he’s been your father’s master of arms for eight years, and he was master of arms for Lord Avern for six or seven years before that, so—”

  A yell from one of the rear guards interrupted him. Lysander’s horse stood placidly in the road. The bard was gone.

  THEY SEARCHED FOR LYSANDER FOR HALF AN HOUR and found no trace of him.

  Perryn said nothing, but even the rough ropes that scraped his wrists couldn’t dim his joyous relief. A true bard. He should never have believed those lies, not for a moment. Though Lysander would probably consider Perryn’s doubts a compliment to his performance.

  After that, they rode in grim silence, and Perryn didn’t try to break it. These men were loyal to Cedric; they wouldn’t question his lies. In the ten years since the queen’s death, since the king had begun to let the reins of governance slip from his grasp, the master of arms had become powerful.

  Was he more powerful than Perryn’s father? Perhaps not, but the guards respected Cedric more than they did the king—certainly more than any of them respected Perryn. Nothing he said would be believed.

  Night had fallen by the time they reached the main camp. The tents set up around the big fires would hold more than fifty guardsmen, and Perryn’s heart sank. He’d been hoping for a rescue after the bard escaped, but Lysander and Sam couldn’t possibly get him out of this.

  They rode straight for the largest tent and the leader dismounted and went in. When he came out, Cedric was with him.

  “Congratulations, Harl. You’ve won two hundred gold for yourself and your men.”

  “I’m sorry about that blasted bard,” said the leader. “They tricked us, that’s the plain truth.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s the prince who’s important. Cut him loose. He’s not going to run anymore.”

  They freed Perryn’s hands and helped him down. He staggered, and Cedric grasped his collar. It probably looked like Cedric was helping him stand, but the grip was like iron.

  “Walk with me, Your Highness. You need to work the kinks out of your legs and I have a message to give you…from your father.”

  The guards exchanged amused glances. They thought Cedric had been told to thrash him. For a moment, fooled by the easy tone of Cedric’s voice, so did Perryn. Then the truth struck him—he was going to be murdered!

  He drew a breath to cry out but Cedric twisted his fist in Perryn’s tunic. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t make a sound. He clawed at the noose of cloth around his throat. His feet were moving, stumbling. Bright spots formed before his eyes. His legs weakened. Just as his mind began to slide into darkness, the grip on his collar relaxed.

  Perryn gasped and would have fallen if Cedric hadn’t grabbed his shoulder.

  They kept moving. When Perryn regained enough of his senses to look around, they were walking through a thick glade. He could no longer see the camp. If he screamed, the guardsmen would assume he was being punished. Perryn bit his lip, took a deep breath, and spoke quietly.

  “It won’t do you any good to kill me. I’ve brought them all together, and they’re the ones who are going to slay the dragon. Killing me won’t stop the prophecy.”

  “Do you think so? I don’t know about this unicorn the men claimed to see, or the rusty sword, but I’ve heard about your bard in the towns where we’ve traced you and I’m surprised you got him this far. My guess is that when you’re gone he’ll take the quickest road out of Idris and stay out. I’m curious though, how did you know about me? Harl told me what you said.”

  Cedric’s voice was casual, but Perryn’s thoughts raced. If he told Cedric he had learned of his identity from someone else…then Cedric would kill them, too.

  “I saw a letter you were writing to your chieftain,” he confessed. “I was using the Mirror of Idris to—”

  “The Mirror,” Cedric breathed. “So that was it. I’ve wondered where it was.”

  Time. He had to stall for time. If he could keep Cedric talking, maybe he could find some way to escape.

  “Can I ask you…ah…how did you learn to write? I thought the Norsemen—”

  “I learned to write in prison.” Cedric’s voice held a bitterness Perryn had never heard from him before. “We have a custom among my people, that a boy should meet his enemies before he grows his beard. As a youth, I disguised myself as one of your peasants and went into a town, explaining my accent by saying I was from a distant village. Your people are easy to fool, Prince Perryndon.” A cold smile lingered on his face. “Then a drunk stumbled into me. He was rude and insulting, so I drew my dagger and avenged my honor as a warrior should. But your people don’t understand honor.”

  Perryn tripped over a root as Cedric dragged him through a stand of thick trees, the branches lashing Perryn’s face. Didn’t Cedric care if there were scratches when his body was found? How was he going to explain Perryn’s death? But the arms master went on speaking.

  “My youth kept me from hanging, but I grew my first beard in a prison cell, five feet by five feet. I had never been confined before. I almost…The man in the cell across from me was learned. I lost my accent in three years of speaking to him, and he taught me to read and write—the secret your people keep so jealously to themselves.”

  “We don’t—”

  “One day Lord Avern’s garrison master came to the prison to gat
her recruits, and I went with him.” He gazed at Perryn, his eyes full of malice. “I could have escaped then, but I’d already learned one of your secrets and I wanted more.”

  The trees around them were thinning, admitting some light from the waning moon. Struggling against Cedric’s strength was futile, but Perryn’s feet seemed to have a mind of their own, skidding in the soft soil as he tried to slow their headlong pace.

  “When I had leave, I secretly visited my people,” Cedric continued, hauling Perryn easily beside him despite his resistance. “Over the years, I shared my new knowledge with them. My chieftain reads and writes as well as I do now. And knowing your fighting methods has helped us to defeat you more than a hundred warriors would. But most of all,” he smiled again, enjoying his boasting, “it has helped to know the king’s plans.”

  “You won’t get away with it.” Perryn’s voice shook. “My father will—”

  “Your father is a drunk, and the death of his heir…” Cedric pushed him through the last of the trees. They stood near the top of a high cliff, only a dozen feet from the edge. “It will probably finish him.”

  “You can’t.” Perryn’s mouth was dry.

  “A tragic accident,” said Cedric. “You were running to escape your punishment and in your panic, in the dark, you didn’t see the cliff. I tried to warn you, but—”

  “No!” Perryn shouted. “Please, Cedric, no. I beg you!” He threw his arms around Cedric’s waist.

  Cedric cursed and shoved him off. Perryn stumbled several feet closer to the cliff, but when he straightened, he held Cedric’s dagger in his fist.

  Cedric began to laugh. Then he stopped. “What? No tears? By the old gods, you might have made a man after all. What a pity.” He lunged at Perryn, who jumped away, and they began to circle.

  The pattern of attack and retreat was as familiar as an old nightmare. Perryn tried to tell himself that this time the master of arms wore no padding and carried no weapon. And Perryn had his glasses on. He had a chance!