Chronicles of the Red King #3: Leopards' Gold (9 page)

“It’s hurting,” Petrello breathed.

His aunt loosened her grip a little, but didn’t let go of his hands. The look in her eyes seemed to express bewilderment.

The storm in Petrello’s head abated; his fingers were still cool, but not frozen.

“What do you see, Aunt Zobayda?” he asked.

“I see an army,” she murmured, and the furrow between her eyebrows grew deeper.

“An army?” He liked the sound of that word. It was exciting.

Aunt Zobayda shook her head slowly, and added, “It is in the air, Petrello. The army is in the air.”

“How can that be?” He eased his hands out of her grasp. “It makes no sense. Why did you see such a strange thing? What can it have to do with me?”

“Petrello, I have no idea,” she said. “I can only tell you what I saw when I touched your fingers. But what did YOU see?”

“Nothing. A storm raged in my head. I felt a mighty wind, and thought my fingers were turning to ice.”

“Hmm.” Aunt Zobayda spread her own fingers and regarded the silver ring. Again, she said, “Hmm.”

“Your ring has a powerful shine today, Aunt,” said Tolly. “Is it playing tricks?”

She gave a little grin. “Who knows?” She turned the ring on her slim brown finger. “This was given to me by the last forest-jinni the world will ever see. It is his image. I sense that he is still watching over us.”

The noises from the next courtyard had, almost without their noticing, become quite a commotion.

“You’ve missed your breakfasts, no doubt,” said Aunt Zobayda. “Better run along, boys. It sounds as though something serious is afoot.”

The brothers jumped and ran to the entrance, but as they went through the arch, Petrello heard his aunt call, “Don’t fear your gift, Petrello. Don’t reject it, for it could save us all.”

What could she mean? Puzzling over his aunt’s words, Petrello followed his brother through the maze of carpenters’ benches, wagon wheels, barrels, and tanners’ baths. Flames from the blacksmith’s furnace warmed the air and sparks flew in all directions. The noise intensified as they got closer to the first courtyard. Zobayda was right. The deafening activity could only mean that preparations for an expedition were underway.

There was no doubt about it. The horses were out, stamping on the cobbles, snorting and coughing. Grooms ran around them carrying armor, harnesses, and weapons. The Knight Protectors were all there, arming themselves with their grooms’ help, flexing their necks and shoulders, punching the air, and steadying their mounts.

Gunfrid squeezed through the crowd and raced up to Petrello and Tolly, calling their names.

“What’s happening?” asked Tolly, although it was plain to see that an expedition was, indeed, about to take place.

“The king was anxious for his knight Peredur,” Gunfrid said breathlessly. “He hasn’t returned. So the king and his knights are riding to Castle Melyntha. Sir Peredur might have been captured, though your brother Amadis says the eagles haven’t given him news of this, but —”

“Gunfrid!” Petrello spoke so sharply, Gunfrid clamped his mouth shut in astonishment.

Petrello felt unaccountably afraid. Gunfrid was carrying a familiar gold and silver helmet. “What are you doing with that?” He pointed at the helmet.

“Amadis said I might help the groom, so that one day I could be his —”

“Amadis must not wear it!” The words flew out of Petrello’s mouth, almost before he knew they were there.

“Why?” Gunfrid gazed at the helmet, turning it in his hands. “It’s strong and beautiful.”

The same sense of dread that had assailed Petrello before swept over him now as he saw the helmet, shining in Gunfrid’s small hands. But before Petrello could utter another word, Gunfrid said, “Look at me!” and put the helmet on his own head.

For a moment, a smile danced on the boy’s lips and then, as the helmet slipped farther down over his pale face, his mouth turned a ghastly gray, his skin wrinkled, and his whole body contorted as a dreadful trembling spasm took hold of him. With a piercing cry, Gunfrid fell to the ground. He lay on his back, as still as death, all his limbs as stiff as sticks.

P
etrello dropped to his knees beside the motionless boy. He must remove the helmet. He knew it had caused Gunfrid’s horrible fit. But the helmet now had a mind of its own. No matter how hard Petrello tugged, it wouldn’t come off. In spite of being too big for the boy’s small head, the helmet clung like a giant limpet to a tiny rock.

Tolly ran to get help. In a second, Amadis was there, tapping Petrello’s shoulder, pulling his fingers away from the helmet. “Let me do it,” Amadis said, expecting his treasured piece of armor to slip into his hands.

“Strange,” he exclaimed. “It fits the boy.” He looked at Petrello. “What happened here, brother?”

Petrello told him in a rush, finishing, “It’s been bewitched, Amadis. I felt it, but couldn’t stop Gunfrid. I knew there was something wrong, but I couldn’t say why. Unless …”

“What are you trying to say?” Amadis stared intently at Petrello.

“It’s nothing. But earlier, I saw Lilith in the helmet room, and knowing what she can do …” Petrello felt almost ashamed. “It’s nonsense. I’m sorry I even thought of it.”

“Of course it’s nonsense.” Amadis let go of the helmet and straightened up. “We need the king’s help.”

He had hardly spoken when the king was at his side.

“Who is that hidden in your helmet?” asked the king. “Is he ill … or …” He looked closer at the boy on the ground.

“It’s the waif from Melyntha, Father,” said Amadis. “He put on my helmet and this happened. We can’t remove it.”

In one swift movement, the king bent and lifted Gunfrid in his arms. The boy’s head lolled back, the weight of the helmet dragging it down. His arms and legs were still rigid and it looked as though the king was carrying a boy made of wood.

The three brothers followed their father into the Meeting Hall. Laying Gunfrid on the long table, the king quickly unfastened his cloak and threw it over the stricken boy. Then he placed his hand on Gunfrid’s chest in the place where his heart was struggling to beat.

“He’s not dead,” said the king. “But I have never seen a child afflicted like this. Some wickedness has been used.”

Amadis hesitated before he said, “Petrello saw something, Father.”

The king turned to Petrello. “What did you see?”

Petrello reddened. All at once, he began to doubt himself. Why had he imagined that Lilith had tampered with the helmet? “I-I’m not sure,” he stammered.

“Come on, Petrello. Have confidence in yourself. Did you see someone else with this helmet?” The king pulled the cloak away from Gunfrid’s head and gave the helmet another light tug. It still wouldn’t come off the boy’s head.

“No,” said Petrello. “But I saw Lilith in the helmet room, that’s all.”

The king frowned. “And what were you doing there?”

Petrello had no choice but to tell his father the truth. How he had followed Vyborn and Gunfrid to the armory and how Vyborn had turned into a goat and frightened the guard into unlocking the door. “And Lilith was there,” he went on, “and when I saw Amadis’s helmet, I felt, I don’t know —”

“It was meant for me, Father,” Amadis broke in. “If it were not for that boy, I would be lying there, paralyzed, half dead.”

The king gave a sigh that was more like a groan. “Why? Who would wish to harm you, Amadis?”

Amadis shrugged, and then, as if struck by a sudden idea, he said, “The only thing that marks me out from others is my ability to speak with animals.”

“Ah!” The king put a finger to his lips and paced beside the table, glancing occasionally at Gunfrid’s motionless body.

The brothers remained silent, reluctant to break into their father’s thoughts.

“I begin to see a pattern now,” the king said at last. “They are trying to remove anything that could warn us of approaching danger. First the crystal, and now Amadis and the eagles.”

“They?” Petrello ventured. “Who are THEY?”

“Is Lilith part of a conspiracy?” asked Tolly, his eyes round with alarm.

The king spread his hands. “Another puzzle for Wyngate.” He lifted one of Gunfrid’s rigid hands. “Fetch Llyr for me. My cloak is not enough for this poor lad.”

“I’ll go.” Petrello ran into the courtyard with Tolly close behind.

“What’s going on, boys?” called Sir Edern. “Is the king detained?” The big knight was already mounted and obviously eager to set off. Sir Peredur was a great friend, and both knights would have laid down their lives for each other.

“A plot has been discovered.” Tolly’s high voice carried above the crush and clamor of impatient knights.

“A plot?” roared Sir Edern, leaping to the ground.

Hearing Sir Edern’s powerful shout, other knights began to dismount.

“You shouldn’t have told them,” Petrello said as the boys sped across to the wizards’ tower.

“The knights will have to know,” Tolly panted.

They had reached the steps leading to the aerie.

“Our father isn’t going to accuse Lilith, is he?” Tolly said as they mounted the narrow steps.

“I don’t think he can,” Petrello agreed. He had seen the sorrow in his father’s eyes before, when one of the others used their talents thoughtlessly, or for some cruel sport. It was as though the king blamed himself for their behavior. But poisoning? Could Lilith really have intended to do such a thing to her own brother?

“Remember the rash that covered Guan’s face?” said Tolly. “That was Lilith. She admitted it.”

“Yes. Dusted a little something onto that pretty necklace,” said Petrello, remembering. “Our mother scolded her and she was better for a while. It was lucky that Eri found a herb to cure the rash.” Petrello took the last step up to the wizards’ door and knocked.

“Who is it?” Llyr sounded tired and distracted.

“It’s me,” said Petrello. “And Tolly.”

“Enter, me and Tolly!” This time there was a hint of a smile in Llyr’s voice.

The aerie was in even more chaos than before. Petrello had to push the door against a tide of discarded robes and boots. He stepped over the garments only to find himself crunching shells and dried herbs beneath his feet. Eri, bent double over an open chest in the corner, was mumbling oaths in ancient Welsh. The boys recognized some of the words, and Petrello couldn’t help grinning at his brother.

“So, young princes, have you come to help us tidy our muddle?” Llyr was placing shells in a row on his table. He liked things to be well-ordered. Every crystal, every bone, stone, seed, shell, and fungus had its place.

“Are you still searching for the Seeing Crystal?” Tolly asked.

“I am not,” said Llyr, “but Grandfather won’t give up. He thinks a squirrel or a magpie might have moved it.”

“Or one of those black kittens on a rat hunt,” muttered Eri. He stood up, rubbing his back.

“The king needs you,” Petrello said, and he quickly told the wizards what had happened to Gunfrid.

“Shivering stars,” said Eri. “Take the heather, Llyr. Quick now.”

“I know what to do, Grandfather.” Llyr gathered up several sprigs of heather and thrust them into a bag. Four iron bowls followed the heather. Then Llyr’s eyes searched the table, his fingers touching the stones and the shells. Nodding to himself, he picked up several tiny bones and put them in the bag. “Ready,” he said, striding to the door. But all at once, he turned and hurried back to the table. “Hoof fungus,” he said, and tossed a handful of curled fungi into the bag.

Petrello and Tolly sped down the stairway with Llyr almost treading on their flying jackets. They ran across the courtyard, through the crowd of bewildered knights and restless horses, and past the grooms and stable boys. The guard outside the Meeting Hall let them in without a murmur.

The king and Amadis were standing on either side of the eagle helmet. Gunfrid’s pale chin and bloodless lips could be seen poking out beneath the nosepiece.

Llyr stared at the small chalk-white chin. He touched the thin lips with the back of his hand and looked at the king.

“My cloak is not enough.” King Timoken looked distraught.

Llyr merely nodded. He took the four bowls from his bag and handed two each to Petrello and Tolly. “One on the sill, one by the fireplace, one at the door, one at his feet. So the spell cannot be corrupted from outside.”

Tolly ran to the door and then the window. Petrello took one of his bowls and placed it by the fire. The other he put very carefully on the table a few inches from Gunfrid’s small feet. While the boys were busy, Llyr took out the sprigs of heather and laid them on the cloak that covered Gunfrid’s body. He broke them up and divided them into four small piles, ordering the boys to place a pile in each bowl. He did the same with the tiny bones, then he went to each bowl and crumbled the hoof fungus on top of the heather and bones. When all this was done, Llyr looked at the king and asked, “Will you light them for us, Sire?”

Without a word, the king moved to the door. He bent down and with one finger touched the contents of the bowl. The heather took light. It smoldered and glowed. The king went to the other three bowls and repeated the action. Soon, the contents of all four bowls was smoking and crackling. A pungent, earthy smell began to fill the room.

“Tell the knights to stand down,” the king told Amadis. “I cannot leave the castle until this poor boy is well again.” He sat in his heavy oak chair, with its ornately carved back, and leaned his arms on the table, close to the boy’s head.

While Amadis went to speak to the knights, Petrello and Tolly hovered by the table, unsure what to do.

“You had better go to your lessons, boys,” said their father. “There’s nothing to be done here until your friend revives.”

When the boys left the room, their father had begun to murmur in the language of his African kingdom. And in the background, very low and quiet, came a chant from Llyr, the music in his throat so gentle it could have been drawn from the breath of trees.

“I don’t want to go to the schoolroom,” said Tolly as they made their way past the disconsolate knights. They were always in high spirits before an expedition, and the change of plans was disappointing. It took some time to prepare horses and armor, and to be told that all the preparations had been for nothing irked the knights.

“One more day lost for Peredur,” grumbled Sir Edern, patting his stallion’s nose.

The horse snorted, aware of his master’s irritation.

“The expedition isn’t cancelled,” Amadis said. “It’s merely delayed.”

“For how long?” asked Edern.

“Until the boy is cured,” said Mabon, the archer. “It makes sense, Edern. We can’t go without Timoken, and he must find out what sort of mischief is afoot. Someone has tampered with that helmet, and until we know who, or why, it is surely safer not to put ourselves at risk.”

“Who knows what sickness that orphan may have brought us?” Edern grumbled. “How do we know it was the helmet that laid him out?” He looked at Amadis.

Amadis spread his hands. “It seems obvious.” He turned and saw his younger brothers. “Your new friend is in good hands,” he told them. “Time for lessons now.”

Petrello sighed and Tolly groaned. They headed for the schoolroom. They had to pass the chancellor’s office on their way, and saw the Gray Men gathered outside the chancellor’s door. They were murmuring to one another, their low voices contrasting oddly with the loud bluster of the Knight Protectors. They stopped speaking when the boys passed. Petrello could feel their eyes on him, and he half expected a scornful remark or even a command from the gloomy Chimery. But the Gray Men said not a word. They watched the boys until they reached the schoolroom door, and then Chimery was heard to mutter, “Not long now …” The rest of his words were lost in a guffaw from one of the others.

“What did he mean?” asked Tolly as he stepped down to the schoolroom.

“No idea,” said Petrello, opening the schoolroom door.

They entered at the back of the room and quickly slipped onto the bench behind the nearest table. Ahead of them were another three tables, where children age eight to eleven sat with their hands in their laps and their eyes fixed on Friar Gereint. The friar sat at a high desk in front of the class. He was very nearsighted and could never make out the children at the back of the class. If he heard the door close, he would call, “Who’s come in or has someone gone out? Speak!” He did this now.

No one answered.

“Come on. Speak!” Friar Gereint’s bad sight made him irritable. He always suspected a trick.

“It’s Petrello and Tolomeo,” answered Petrello, not wanting to put any of the other children in the awkward position of having to tell on them.

“Thank you.” The friar relaxed. He was a very short, very stout person, but when the king first met him, he had been a skinny boy with a beautiful voice. Twenty years of good food and little exercise in a monastery had changed him beyond recognition.

“Princes or not, you’re late,” said the friar. “Petrello, please recite the ‘Ode to Prince Griffith,’ composed by Sir Edern’s father, the late, great poet Elvin.”

Petrello gave an inward sigh. The “Ode to Prince Griffith” was extremely long, and he had never quite mastered it. Prince Griffith was a Welsh Briton who had once owned Castle Melyntha. When he was killed in a battle, the conquerors took over his castle and most of the Britons had fled or been killed. Petrello’s father, being an African king, had even more reason to flee. He had escaped with the wizard Eri.