The Eyes of the Dragon

57

Peyna was in his study, staring into the fire and thinking long thoughts. When Thomas had been crowned the moon had been new; it was not yet at the half, and already he did not like the way things were going. Flagg-that was the worst. Flagg. The magician already wielded more power than in the days of Roland’s reign. Roland had at least been a man, full of years, no matter how slow his thinking might have been. Thomas was only a boy, and Peyna feared that Flagg might soon control all Delain in Thomas’s name. That would be bad for the Kingdom… and bad for Anders Peyna, who had never concealed his dislike of Flagg.

It was pleasant here in the study, before the crackling fire, but Peyna thought he nonetheless felt a cold wind around his ankles. It was a wind which might rise and blow away… everything.

Why, Peter? Why, oh why? Why couldn’t you wait? And why did you have to seem so perfect on the outside, like a rose-red apple in autumn, and be so rotten below the skin? Why?

Peyna didn’t know… and would not admit to himself, even now, that doubts as to whether or not Peter really had been rotten were beginning to nibble at his heart.

There was a knock at the door.

Peyna roused himself, looked around, and called out impatiently: “Come! And it better be damned good!”

Arlen came in, looking ruffled and confused. He held an envelope in one hand.

“Well?”

“My Lord… there’s a man at the door… at least, he looks like a man… that is, his face is most awfully puffed and swelled, as if he had gotten a terrible beating… or…” Arlen’s voice trailed away.

“What’s that to do with me? You know I don’t receive this late. Tell him to go away. Tell him to go to the devil!”

“He says he’s Beson, my Lord,” Arlen said, more flustered than ever. He raised the smudged envelope, as if to use it as a shield. “He brought this. He says it’s a message from Prince Peter.”

Peyna’s heart leaped at that, but he only frowned more strenuously at Arlen.

“Well, is it?”

“From Prince Peter?” Arlen was almost gibbering now. His usual composure was utterly lost, and Peyna found this interesting. He wouldn’t have believed Arlen would lose his composure come fire, flood, or invasion of ravaging dragons. “My Lord, I would have no way of knowing… That is, I… I…”

“Is it Beson, you idiot?”

Arlen licked his lips-actually licked his lips. This was utterly unheard of. “Well, it might be, my Lord… it looks a bit like him… but the fellow on the doorstep is most awfully bruised and lumpy… I…” Arlen swallowed. “I thought he looked like a dwarf,” he said, bringing out the worst and then trying to soften it with a lame smile.

It is Beson, Peyna thought. It’s Beson and if he looks as if he’s been beaten it’s because Peter administered the beating. That’s why he brought the message. Because Peter beat him and he was afraid not to. A beating’s the only thing that convinces his sort.

There came a sudden feeling of exultation in Peyna’s heart: he felt as one might feel in a dark cave when a light suddenly shines out.

“Give me the letter,” he said.

Arlen did. He then made as if to scuttle out, and this was also something new, because Arlen did not scuttle. At least, Peyna thought, his mind lawyerly as always, I have never KNOWN him to scuttle.

He let Arlen get as far as the study door, as a veteran fisherman will let a hooked fish run, and then pulled him up short. “Arlen.”

Arlen turned back. He looked braced, as if to receive a reprimand.

“There are no more dwarves. Did your mother not tell you so?”

“Yes,” Arlen said reluctantly.

“Good for her. A wise woman. These dreams in your head must have come from your father. Let the Chief Warder in. To the servants’ kitchen,” he added hastily. “I have no wish to have him in here. He stinks. But let him into the servants’ kitchen so he may warm himself. The night is cold.” Since the death of Roland, Peyna reflected, all the nights had been cold, as if in reproach for the way the old King had burned, from the inside out.

“Yes, my Lord,” Arlen said with marked reluctance.

“I’ll ring for you shortly and tell you what to do with him.”

Arlen went out, a humbled man, and closed the door behind him.

Peyna turned the envelope over in his hands several times without opening it. The dirt was no doubt from Beson’s own greasy fingers. He could almost smell the villain’s sweat on the envelope. It had been sealed shut with a blot of common candle wax.

He thought, I would do better, perhaps, to throw this directly into the fire, and think of it no more. Yes, throw it into the fire, then ring Arlen and tell him to give the little hunched-over Chief Warder-he really DOES look like a dwarf; now that I think of it-a hot toddy and send him away. Yes, that is what I should do.

But he knew that he wouldn’t. That absurd feeling-that feel-ing that here was a ray of light in hopeless darkness-would not leave him. He put his thumb under the flap of the envelope, broke the seal, took out a brief letter, and read it by firelight.