The Eyes of the Dragon

89

Peter had the same feeling.

By Sunday, two days after Peyna and Arlen reached the camp of the exiles, his rope would still, by his calculations, finish up thirty feet short of the ground. This meant that when he dangled from the end of it with his arms fully extended, he would face a drop of at least twenty-one feet. He knew that he would be wiser by far to go on with his rope for another four month seven another two. If he dropped from the rope, fell badly, and broke both of his legs so that the Plaza guards found him groaning on the cobbles when they made their round-o'-the-clock, he would have wasted more than four years, simply because he did not have the patience to pursue his labor another four months.

This was logic Peyna could have appreciated, but Peter’s feel-ing that he must now hurry was much stronger. Once Peyna would have snorted at the idea that feelings could be more trust-worthy than logic… but now he might have been less sure.

Peter had been having a dream-for almost a week running now it had played over and over, gradually becoming more distinct. In it, he saw Flagg, bent over some bright and glowing object-it lit the magician’s face a sickly greenish-yellow. In this dream, there always came a point when Flagg’s eyes first wid-ened, as if in surprise, and then narrowed to cruel slits. His brows pulled down; his forehead darkened; a grimace as bitter as a crescent moon twisted his mouth. In this expression, the dream-ing Peter read one thing and one thing only: death. Flagg said only one word as he leaned forward and blew upon the brightly glowing object, which whiffed out like a candle when the ma-gician’s breath touched it. Only one word, but one was enough. The word from Flagg’s mouth was Peter’s own name, uttered in tones of angry discovery.

The night before, Saturday night, there had been a fairy-ring around the moon. The Lesser Warders thought it would soon snow. Examining the sky this afternoon, Peter knew they were right. It was his father who had taught Peter to read the weather, and standing at the window, Peter felt a pang of sadness… and a renewed spark of cold, quiet anger… the need to make things right again.

I’ll make my try under cover of darkness and under cover of storm, he thought. There’ll even be a bit of snow to cushion my fall. He had to grin at that idea-three inches of light, powdery snow between him and the cobbles would do precious little one way or the other. Either his perilously thin rope would hold… or it would break. Assuming it held, he would take the drop. And his legs would either take the impact… or they wouldn’t.

And if they do take it, where will you go on them? a little voice whispered. Any who might have shielded you or helped you… Ben Staad, for instance-have long since been driven from the castle keep… from the very Kingdom itself; for all you know.

He would trust to luck, then. King’s luck. It was a thing his father had often talked about. There are lucky Kings and unlucky. But you’ll be your own King and you’ll have your own luck. M’self, I think you’ll be very lucky.

He had been King of Delain-at least in his own heart-for five years now, and he thought his luck had been the kind which the Staad family, with its famous bad luck, would have understood. But perhaps tonight would make up for all.

His rope, his legs, his luck. Either all would hold or all would break, quite possibly at the same time. No matter. Poor as it had been, he would trust to his luck.

“Tonight,” he murmured, turning from the window… but something happened at supper which changed his mind.