Chronicles of the Red King #3: Leopards' Gold

  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.

  Petrello cleared his throat and began. “‘Glorious was our prince, our golden-haired warrior. Fearless was he, a prince without equal. Inconsolable are his people …’”

  Five minutes later, Petrello was still struggling with the third verse. Guanhamara, sitting beside him, knew the ode better than anyone; she kept trying to whisper the right words to her brother, but it was no use. He stuttered, paused, stumbled, and squirmed. Friar Gereint’s loud sighs didn’t help, nor did the giggles from the smallest children at the front. And then, suddenly, Petrello saw Zeba sitting very quiet and still at the end of the table in front of him, and he realized that she didn’t know what had happened to her brother.

  Petrello closed his troubled mouth and sat down.

  “Well done,” said Guanhamara.

  “Hardly,” whispered Petrello.

  “Given up, have you?” asked the friar. He clicked his tongue, shook his head, and sighed. “Suppose I gave up trying to teach you?”

  Petrello didn’t know what to do. He could only think of Zeba. Would it frighten her to know what had happened? She should be told, he decided. She would want to be with Gunfrid.

  Petrello stood up. “There is some grave news that concerns Zeba,” he said.

  Zeba leaped up, her face pinched with anxiety. “Gunfrid?” she cried.

  Friar Gereint banged his desk with a mallet. “Trying to change the subject, are we, Prince Petrello?”

  “No, Friar Gereint. It’s true. Gunfrid is … has been taken ill.”

  With a wild scream, Zeba bounded to the door; flinging it open, she leaped through and left it banging behind her.

  A babble of excitement broke out. Children gasped, murmured, and chattered.

  “Hush!” commanded the friar. “Illness is not unknown here. But the king can always cure it.”

  “I don’t think he can,” Petrello said quietly. “Not this time.”

  It seemed to be a very long day. Knights, courtiers, workmen, and children were all quieter than usual. Even the dogs were subdued. The king seldom left Gunfrid’s side, and when he did, he spoke to no one. His somber mood reached through every room, every tower, and every courtyard, and the smell of Llyr’s incense hung in corners and seeped into the very stones of the castle.

  Lilith was nowhere to be seen. Was she afraid? Petrello wondered. Afraid that she’d gone too far this time? He remembered the seeds she’d put in Elin’s shoe. Poor Elin’s foot swelled up so much she could hardly walk. She limped for weeks, and then there was Selgi’s sickness and Cafal’s dreadful itching. After the queen’s scolding, Lilith hadn’t used her cruel power. Perhaps she’d had nothing to do with the helmet, after all. Petrello wished he hadn’t seen her in the armory.

  When lessons were over, Petrello hurried to Aunt Zobayda’s garden. His aunt was wise. She would put his mind at rest, one way or another.

  But when he reached the third courtyard, Zobayda was not on her seat, and a shrill voice could be heard coming from the Royal Tower.

  Petrello walked closer. A guard stood at the entrance to the tower. “The queen wants privacy,” he told Petrello.

  “I understand.” Petrello moved around the tower until he was out of the guard’s sight. As luck would have it, he now stood directly beneath the window of the queen’s chamber. He could hear her voice quite clearly.

  “I guessed as much,” moaned the queen. “You poisoned your brother’s helmet. But why?”

  “I’ve told you. It was an accident.” Lilith’s slightly husky voice rose indignantly.

  “How could that be?” the queen demanded.

  “I don’t know my own strength, do I?”

  “Stupid girl. What did you do?”

  “I just dropped in a few rose petals,” Lilith said casually. “Five to be precise; they were dry but still sweet-smelling.”

  “Impossible,” said the queen. “Roses could never be used for such an evil purpose.”

  “It’s not the petals, Mother,” Lilith said disdainfully. “It’s the words I use with them. A buttercup would have the same effect if I spoke to it. I admit I was surprised. Those little petals clung to the helmet quite beautifully, though I never asked them to.”

  “Ugh!” exclaimed the queen. “Have you no shame?”

  “No harm was done,” Lilith replied. “That boy is an orphan, a waif from Melyntha. What use is he?”

  “Use?” cried her mother. “He is a human being, in our care.”

  There was no reply to this. Petrello stepped closer to the tower, but, all at once, the window above him was opened and he found himself staring up at Lilith.

  “Spy!” she hissed. “Worm! Have you nothing better to do than snoop, foolish Petrello?”

  Petrello fled. He wanted to get rid of the ugly words that had come from Lilith’s mouth. Forget them. Pour them out. Never hear them again.
r />   “What is it, little brother?” Guanhamara caught his hand as he ran toward the Meeting Hall.

  Petrello gasped for breath. “Guan, is he any better? Gunfrid? Has he moved? Is the helmet off?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve taken water to Llyr and our father. I thought I saw the boy’s hand move, just a little, but Llyr said it was only my hope, nothing more. Zeba was there. She was sitting very still, staring at the helmet on her brother’s head, as if the shock had frozen her.”

  “Poor thing.”

  “And Gunfrid looked frozen, too. His hands were blue, and his mouth and chin gray with cold.”

  “A freezing spell,” Petrello muttered.

  “Trello, you look frightened. Are there yet more horrors in store for us?”

  Words tumbled out of Petrello’s mouth. Trying to convey the ugliness of Lilith’s tone, he related the conversation he’d overheard in a jumble of breathy sentences. But his sister had no difficulty in understanding him.

  “Poor Mother,” said Guanhamara when Petrello had stumbled to the end of his account.

  “And poor Father,” said Petrello. “What will they do, Guan?”

  “What can they do?”

  The king hardly ever punished his children, and when he did, they knew it was only so that he shouldn’t lose face in front of his courtiers. The punishments were always light: mending garments, going without meat, keeping silent until sunset, and, very rarely, solitary confinement for a day.

  “I’ve never known our father’s cloak to fail,” said Guanhamara. “Lilith’s spell must be mighty powerful.”

  Petrello pulled at her sleeve as the queen strode past, dragging Lilith with her.

  “You’ll undo what you have done,” said the queen, tugging Lilith’s hand.

  “I can’t,” said Lilith sulkily. “I told you.”

  “You’ll have to.”

  The guard outside the Meeting Hall opened the door to let the queen and her daughter through, closing it hastily behind them.

  “Can’t we … ?” asked Guanhamara.

  The guard shook his head.

  “We’re Gunfrid’s friends,” said Petrello.

  “No use, young man.” The guard placed himself squarely in front of the door handle. “There’s magic going on in there; we upset it at our peril.”

  No one could prevent Petrello and his sister from listening. They stayed close to the door. They heard a low mutter from the king. They heard the queen, her voice loud enough for them to hear her words. “It seems obvious to me. Lilith must undo what she has done.”

  “I can’t.” Lilith’s tone was weary and sullen.

  “You won’t, you mean,” retorted her mother.

  “No. I really, really can’t,” Lilith insisted. “Don’t you understand? When something’s done, it’s done. How can I take it back?”

  Llyr said, “Change the flow of words. Speak your cruel instructions backward. Wizards can unwind a spell.”

  “I’m not a wizard, am I?” Lilith said.

  Someone tapped Petrello’s arm and Tolly appeared beside him.

  “Anything happening?” asked Tolly.

  “Lilith did it,” Petrello told him. “She’s in there now, trying to undo her spell.”

  “She’s not,” said Guanhamara. “She won’t, or she doesn’t know how.”

  “Wow!” Tolly’s voice carried across the courtyard, and the guard gave him a warning frown.

  “There’s serious work going on,” grunted the man. “Move off, if you’re going to make a noise.”

  As the three children were dutifully moving away, the supper bell rang out and they walked together to the dining hall.

  Even the youngest children were quiet that evening. By now, they all knew about Gunfrid and the helmet. Petrello heard one five-year-old girl whisper, “What if it never comes off?”

  “The smith will cut through the metal,” Guanhamara reassured her. “It’s quite easy.”

  “But what will the boy’s head be like after that?” asked the girl.

  Guanhamara hesitated for only a fraction of a second, but Petrello saw the look of uncertainty in her eyes before she answered, “Gunfrid’s head will be perfectly normal. Just like it was before he put the helmet on.”

  Would it? Petrello wondered. Would Gunfrid be as he was before? Lilith must have extraordinary power to create a spell that could resist all Llyr’s wizardry and also the magic of the king’s cloak.

  The children walked into their bedchambers in an anxious silence. Tolly looked at the extra pillow on his bed and said, “I’ll have more room now, but I’d rather have Gunfrid.”

  Petrello couldn’t sleep. The moon was full, and he could see his brothers’ heads on their pillows. Vyborn lay perfectly still. Not even a grunt escaped him; either he couldn’t decide what shape to take, or he was exhausted by his exertions of the two nights before. Tolly was restless. He twisted and turned, one hand constantly reaching for his back.

  “Tolly, what is it?” Petrello whispered. “Are you awake?”

  “Itching,” Tolly murmured sleepily. “Something on my back.”

  “Ticks,” said Petrello. “D’you want me to pull them off?”

  “Mmm.” Tolly wriggled upright.

  Kneeling on his brother’s pillow, Petrello pulled his nightshirt up at the back.

  “Near my shoulders,” said Tolly.

  Petrello stared at his brother’s shoulder blades. Two bony knobs appeared to be pushing their way through Tolly’s skin. A small gasp escaped Petrello before he could stop it.

  “What is it?” said Tolly. “Tell me.”

  “I don’t know. Just your bones, I think. They’re more knobbly than … than …”

  “Knobbly?” cried Tolly.

  “Sssh!” hissed Petrello. “You’ll wake Vyborn. We don’t want another donkey in the room.”

  “But what’s on my back, Trello?”

  “Just bones. Your shoulder blades. Don’t fret, Tolly. I’ll look again in the daylight.” Petrello went back to his own bed.

  “It’s Lilith!” Tolly whispered hoarsely. “She’s done something to me. I know it.”

  “No. It’s nothing, Tolly. Go to sleep.”

  Tolly lay down and pulled the covers over his head. For a long time, he rolled around, sighing faintly to himself, and then, at last, he lay still.

  Petrello felt more awake than ever. He slipped out of bed and crept to the door; opening it softly, he tiptoed across the passage and peered through the windows that overlooked the courtyard. The door of the Meeting Hall was in deep shadow but candlelight could be seen flickering in the windows. A guard sat by the door, his head on his chest, a pike lying across his knees. All at once, the guard stood and opened the door.

  Someone moved through the shadows and walked into the moonlit courtyard. Petrello could see the glint of gold in his father’s black hair. The king paced across the cobblestones. He lifted his face to the moon and seemed to speak to it. His skin was shining and, with a shock, Petrello realized that his father’s face was bathed in tears. Once or twice he had seen the king’s eyes glisten with sorrow, but this was real grief.

  Petrello took a step back and clutched his throat. The king barely knew the stricken orphan, and yet he was as distressed as if Gunfrid was his own child. Everything has failed, thought Petrello, and my father blames himself. Gunfrid must be dead.

  A movement in the corner of his eye drew Petrello’s attention to the entrance into the second courtyard. A leopard appeared in the archway. It bounded over to the king and rubbed its head against his tunic. It was Star, the leopard with a pale gold coat. A second later, his brothers came leaping through the arch.

  The three leopards circled the king and he stroked their heads as they passed. He murmured something to them, and smiled at last. Then he turned and walked toward the hall where Gunfrid’s body lay. The leopards followed him in single file: Sun Cat, Flame Chin, and Star. They went into the Meeting Hall and the door was closed behind them. br />
  Petrello stared at the windows of the Meeting Hall. He longed to see what was happening in there. Slowly, the candlelight faded. There was not even a glimmer of firelight to lessen the inky darkness beyond the windows. The need to see into those windows became too great for Petrello to resist. He ran down the steps and across the icy, moonlit courtyard.

  Choosing the window farthest from the guard, Petrello stood on tiptoe and peered through the glass. He could see nothing, but sensed a darkness as dense and stifling as a blanket. Where the first light appeared he couldn’t tell, but gradually he began to make out details in the hall. He could see his father standing by the far wall. Eri and Llyr stood on either side of him. Their eyes glittered and the stars on their blue cloaks gleamed softly.

  The king had removed his cloak from Gunfrid’s body and thrown it around his own shoulders. Zeba stood in front of him, her head lolled and her eyes were closed. The king’s hands rested on her shoulders.

  As the light increased, Petrello could see Gunfrid’s body on the table. How frail and defenseless he looked. His cold blue arms were as rigid as sticks, his pale chin incongruously tiny beneath the eagle helmet. He was still held fast in Lilith’s dreadful spell.

  Petrello squinted in the darkness, searching every corner of the hall. There was no sign of Lilith or the queen, but his intense gaze suddenly found the source of light. It was coming from a moving object, just lower than the tabletop. Two, no, three moving objects. Leopards. They were pacing around the table and a strange light came from their bodies; every second it grew brighter. The leopards’ steady pace increased; it became a gentle run, and now their coats were glowing. Faster they went, faster and faster. Soon, all Petrello could see was a continuous line of brilliant light. Every detail of the leopards had been swallowed in golden fire.

  Faster and faster. Brighter and brighter. The long table was enclosed in a wall of flames. Pressing his head against the windowpane, Petrello could feel the heat. The flames grew, sending dazzling sparks up into the high rafters. And when the sparks floated back to earth, they looked like flakes of golden snow. The tiny pieces of gold dropped gently onto Gunfrid’s cold limbs; they floated onto the helmet and dusted his small chin. Slowly, the fingers that had been clenched so tightly began to uncurl. Gunfrid’s whole frame was shining like a golden statue.