The Eyes of the Dragon

82

The boy was really a man, but Arlen’s use of the word was not unjustified-at least not on this night. He was cold, Peyna saw, but he also knew that the cold alone does not make anyone shudder as Dennis was shuddering.

“Dennis!” Peyna said, sitting forward sharply (and ignoring the twinge in his back the sudden movement caused). “Has something happened to the King?” Dreadful images, awful possibilities suddenly filled Peyna’s old head-the King dead, either from too much wine, or possibly by his own hand. Everyone in Delain knew that the young King was deeply moody.

“No… that is… yes… but no… not the way you mean… the way I think you mean…”

“Come in here close to the fire,” Peyna snapped. “Arlen, don’t just stand there gawking! Get a blanket! Get two! Wrap this boy up before he shakes himself to death like a buggerlug bug!”

“Yes, my Lord,” Arlen said. He had never gawked in his life-he knew it, and Peyna did, too. But he recognized the gravity of this situation and left quickly. He stripped the two blankets from his own bed-the only other two in this glorified peasant’s but were the ones on Peyna’s-and brought them back. He took them to where Dennis crouched as close to the fire as he could without bursting into flames. The deep frost which had covered his hair had begun to melt and to run down his cheeks like tears. Dennis wrapped himself in the blankets.

“Now, tea. Strong tea. A cup for me, a pot for the boy.”

“My Lord, we only have half a canister left in the whole-”

“Bugger how much we have left! A cup for me, a pot for the boy.” He considered. “And make a cup for yourself, Arlen, and then come in here and listen.”

“My Lord?” Even all of his breeding could not keep Arlen from looking frankly astounded at this.

“Damn!” Peyna roared. “Would you have me believe you’re as deaf as I’ve become? Get about it!”

“Yes, my Lord,” Arlen said, and went to brew the last tea in the house.