The Prophecy Page 5

  “If people didn’t trap game all year round, they’d starve,” the bard argued. “With the dragon burning harvests, not to mention taking cattle and sheep, many people in Idris are going hungry. We’re about out of food ourselves, in case you hadn’t noticed. At the next village, I’ll find a tavern to sing in.”

  “We’ll be delayed.”

  “We’ll be delayed worse if we start fainting from hunger. Tomorrow I’ll teach you how to set a snare. No reason for me to do all the work, and the more snares you set out, the better your chances of catching something.”

  Perryn looked at him thoughtfully. He hoped snare setting would prove easier than chopping wood. “Game is getting scarcer, isn’t it, Lysander?”

  “So the old-timers tell me. Everything’s scarce, in the lands where the dragon raids.”

  AFTER LYSANDER FELL ASLEEP THAT NIGHT, PERRYN rolled out of his blankets, pulled the mirror from his pack, and crept away from the fire’s glowing embers. He’d been able to consult the mirror only a few times during their journey, since he usually fell asleep before Lysander did. Tramping the roads all day was a big change from his quiet library tower—and in some ways, dealing with Lysander was just as exhausting. He had no desire to show the skeptical bard a magic mirror that didn’t work; that would prove he was crazy.

  When he got far enough away to be certain he wouldn’t wake Lysander, Perryn wrapped his cloak around him to ward off the cool breeze and sat down, tilting the mirror toward the moonlight.

  “Mirror of Idris, it’s me, Perryn. I mean, Prince Perryndon. Show me the reaction to my flight.”

  He yawned, wondering why he bothered to ask that question anymore. He already knew that his father had sent Cedric to search for him. It was no wonder the mirror never troubled to answer, and he should probably quit—

  Light brighter than the moon’s flared from the glass, whirled and settled almost at once into a picture of his father and Cedric, seated at the big dining table—his father’s alert expression made it obvious that for once the king hadn’t been drinking. Judging by the sunlight pouring through the windows it was sometime in the early afternoon…but what day? Since his mother’s death, the mirror had never moved its vision through time more than a few days, so this must have happened recently…or would happen soon? The mirror had been stretching its boundaries lately.

  Maps and scrolls littered the table, as if his father had held a conference there. The chairs were all pushed back and hadn’t yet been straightened by the servants, so his father’s officers had probably just departed.

  Cedric leaned forward. “There is one more matter we should consider, your Highness.” His voice sounded small and distant, but the words were clear.

  “Hmm?” Perryn’s father scowled at the paper in his hand, some kind of list.

  “It’s been almost two weeks since Prince Perryndon…left us. Isn’t it time to set a search in motion?”

  Perryn frowned. People were searching for him already. Or…Perryn’s heart sank. Had his father even been looking for him? Was Cedric searching on his own, without the king’s permission? If so, it was for only one purpose. A chill ran down Perryn’s spine. If Cedric was putting his energy into tracking down and assassinating the missing prince, with any luck he wouldn’t have time to sabotage the kingdom’s defense—but Perryn couldn’t quite bring himself to be pleased about it.

  “Oh, the boy. He’ll come crawling back when his coin runs out.”

  Exasperation flashed across Cedric’s face, vanishing swiftly when the king looked up at him.

  “Cedric, can’t we get more oats than this? We have to keep the oxen strong, as well as the horses. The army may charge on horseback, but the oxen haul the supplies that feed the men.”

  “It will be attended to, Your Highness,” said Cedric. “But the prince has—”

  “Yes, yes, I understand,” said the king. “I’m going to ask the King of Southfarthing for oats, and other supplies as well. If the Norsemen overwhelm us, Southfarthing’s the next….”

  The image faded, as swiftly as it had appeared.

  “Thank you,” said Perryn. His throat was so tight that his voice sounded hoarse. His heart felt bruised. But he wasn’t going to crawl back—not ever! If his father didn’t care enough to look for him, that only made it easier for him to succeed. He would return in triumph, and bring that treacherous arms master down as well!

  LYSANDER SANG IN THE NEXT VILLAGE. IT MADE Perryn nervous, but it appeared that word of the prince’s disappearance hadn’t reached this place—and as Lysander said, they needed the money. The seven coppers he made purchased only a single bed under the attic’s rafters, which Perryn shared with Lysander, and one day’s food for the two of them. Perryn would rather have camped in the fields outside of town, but it began to rain soon after they reached the village, and Lysander said the damp would be bad for his voice. Since he’d earned the money, Perryn could hardly complain about how he spent it. At least, not much.

  “I thought bards were richly rewarded,” said Perryn as they hiked along the muddy road next morning.

  “Maybe in your grandfather’s time. More likely in your great-great-great-grandfather’s time. Anyone who wants knowledge these days goes to a university for it, so bards aren’t well paid anymore. And it’s not like a university is going to travel from village to village to share its knowledge, but…. Never mind. Which king was your great-great-great-grandfather, anyway?”

  “Reglin,” said Perryn absently. “The fortieth warrior-king. Why be a bard then, if you don’t get paid for it? For the honor?”

  “I can’t trip you up, can I? Come on Perryn, who are you? Really?”

  “I am who I said. And you didn’t answer my question. Are you a bard for the honor of it?”

  Lysander snorted and picked up a stick to scrape the mud off his boots. “Bards get less honor than they do money. Most people think barding is just one step above begging. A short step. You go barding for the adventure,” he waved his muddy stick, “to travel, to see things and meet people.” He grinned suddenly. “The same reasons you go hunting for unicorns. And most of all, for the music.”

  “And because you promised to help me.”

  “Oh, that too, of course.”

  THE LAST VILLAGE BEFORE THE FOREST OF WYR was almost as large as a small town. Perryn collected coins in the tavern where the bard had chosen to play that night. He’d been accepted by so many people as Lysander’s apprentice that he was beginning to feel like it was true.

  The tavern had been crowded when Lysander began to play, but now it was packed, and the crowd was getting rowdy. Was there any bawdy song Lysander didn’t know? He’d been playing for almost three hours and hadn’t repeated himself yet.

  This one had a lively melody, and toes were tapping all over the room. A blacksmith, seated not far from Perryn, lurched to his feet and began to dance.

  Perryn smiled. The man was drunk but no one could blame him—that lighthearted rhythm was irresistible. However, there really wasn’t room enough for dancing, and the big smith was lurching in his direction. Lysander could collect his own coins for a while. Perryn closed their jingling purse and slipped out into the night.

  The cold, fresh air felt wonderful after the tavern’s stuffy heat. Perryn wandered through the inn yard and out into the street. Away from the noisy taproom the night was quiet. Everyone in the village was either at the tavern or in bed, except…Perryn heard hoofbeats coming down the road.

  He drew back toward the shadows, expecting the riders to approach the inn, but they stopped by the message board in the center of the village square. As they dismounted, Perryn saw the glitter of chain mail under their cloaks. He shrank into the bushes at the side of the road. His father’s guards probably weren’t the only men in Idris who wore mail, but he couldn’t call any others to mind.

  As Perryn watched, the two men unrolled a big sheet of paper and tacked it to the center of the board, indifferent to the other notices it covered.
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br />   They mounted their horses and rode through the village, stopping beside the inn, where a soft-voiced argument ensued. Perryn, crouched in the shadows, couldn’t hear what they said. Soon they lifted their reins and rode on.

  They must be camped somewhere nearby, or they’d have stopped at the tavern for the night. Perryn waited till they rounded a bend in the road, then he went quietly to the message board.

  Cedric had persuaded his father to begin the hunt.

  His own face stared back at him from the poster. It was a good likeness—anyone who saw it would recognize him. Ten gold pieces for information about Prince Perryndon’s whereabouts, and two hundred for his safe return. His father would be furious if he had to pay out that much money. Perryn shivered. Perhaps…No, he wouldn’t go creeping home! If he didn’t prove that the prophecy was true, he’d never have any hope of earning his father’s respect. And Cedric will kill me.

  With hands that shook, Perryn reached up and pulled down the notice. He had to keep Lysander from seeing one of these. Why had he told the bard who he really was? It was too late to lie now, but as long as the bard already thought Perryn was lying he would continue with the quest. If he learned the truth…. Perryn crumpled the paper and went looking for the blacksmith’s shop. Forge fires were kept burning all night. In a few moments the poster would be ash, and tomorrow they’d be safely into the forest of Wyr.

  After that…Perryn decided to deal with the future when it arrived.

  LYSANDER MADE ENOUGH MONEY THAT NIGHT TO fill both their satchels with food. He also purchased two long coils of rope.

  “If we have to leave the road for a short distance,” he said, “we can tie this to a tree and be sure of getting back. Besides, it never hurts to have rope when you’re hunting.”

  They had come south as well as east in the last few days and the weather had been warmer. Everfresh was blooming everywhere. Perryn made his cloak into a rough bag. It was full of flowers by the time they reached the outskirts of Wyr forest.

  “I passed through here once.” The bard peered uneasily into the green-roofed tunnel. “I didn’t leave the road. No reason to. I’d forgotten how uncanny it is.”

  Perryn shrugged off his own uneasiness. “It’s just trees. Watch for tracks like the one I drew for you. That will probably be our first sign.”

  He hoped he’d remembered them accurately. A good memory was one of the marks of a scholar.

  Birds sang in the branches above them and small creatures moved in the undergrowth.

  “How can it be so noisy and feel so still?” Perryn murmured.

  “Maybe because there’s no wind.” The bard didn’t sound convinced.

  They camped that night right in the middle of the road. Perryn made one half-hearted objection about blocking the path and then conceded. Lysander looked longingly back the way they had come.

  ON THE SECOND DAY, THE ROAD CROSSED A BRIDGE over a stream and Perryn saw the first unicorn tracks. His shout of triumph echoed in the quiet wood. He leaped from the road and knelt eagerly in the soft earth beside the water. “Look, they’re exactly like the picture. Exactly!”

  “What makes you so sure? You said you drew it from memory.” Lysander stood on the road, scowling down at him.

  “It’s a cloven hoof, but round instead of wedge shaped like a deer’s. They’re exactly like Ebron described them. What else could they be? We have to follow them!”

  “Into the woods?” said the bard. “Not me, Your Highness.”

  “But we must! At least far enough to set a trap. You can tie your ropes to a tree and we won’t leave the rope—I promise. That’s what you brought them for, remember?”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “But it was your idea! Oh, very well, I’ll go myself. Tie the ropes together. You take one end, I’ll take the other, and if I get into trouble I can yank on the rope.”

  “If,” Lysander muttered.

  Perryn walked resolutely to the edge of the road, where he selected a sturdy pine and tied the end of one of the ropes to it. He tested the knot.

  “Oh, all right,” Lysander grumbled. “You follow the tracks and I’ll follow you. I’d like to keep the road in sight if we can.”

  “Excellent!”

  Perryn set off on the trail of the unicorn. The tracks were so clear that even an inexperienced tracker could follow them.

  “I’ve read that unicorn magic is so strong it purifies the earth they walk on.” He walked rapidly, his eyes on the ground. “These tracks look fresh. Do you think they could be? Or is some sort of—”

  “I can’t see the road anymore,” the bard interrupted. “It was there just a minute ago.”

  “Is your rope still tied?”

  Lysander gave it a yank. “Yes.” He gazed uneasily at the forest around them.

  “Then stop worrying.”

  “Wait a moment, Perryn. I have to tie the other rope to this one.”

  Perryn fidgeted impatiently until the bard finished.

  “The trail goes up this bank.” Perryn strode on eagerly. “I wonder how much unicorns like everfresh. Watch out for a place to set a trap.”

  The tracks wandered up the slope, along a deer trail, and into a broad meadow with a stream running through it.

  Lysander’s hand closed over Perryn’s collar. “Stop.”

  “But the trail goes—”

  “We’re out of rope.”

  “Is it still tied to the tree?”

  Lysander tugged on it and nodded.

  “Then just let me go into the meadow. I won’t be out of sight for a moment. I’m sure these tracks are fresh.”

  “No.” Lysander was clutching the rope so tightly his knuckles were white. “We’re going back. Now.”

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” said the bard angrily. “If I knew I’d have told you long ago. It’s like I’m hearing things I can’t quite hear. I catch a glimpse of movement from the corner of my eye, but when I turn to look there’s nothing there.” He began to walk back, coiling the rope as fast as he could.

  “I haven’t seen anything.”

  “Except for unicorn tracks,” said Lysander. “You wouldn’t have seen a dragon unless you tripped over it. Are you coming or not?”

  Perryn looked at the tracks leading into the meadow. Now that he noticed it, even the sunlit field felt haunted. He turned and followed the bard.

  None of the trees looked familiar. If it hadn’t been for the rope and the tracks, Perryn would have sworn they were going the wrong way. He listened for the sound of the stream but he didn’t hear it.

  Lysander came to a stop. His sweaty face was pale, his expression grim.

  “What is it?” Perryn looked past him, and at last he saw a tree he recognized—a sturdy pine. Lysander’s rope was tied to it. The road was nowhere in sight.

  “Courage,” said Prince Perryndon. “We may have missed the road, but we are not lost. The prophecy guides us.”

  6

  “IT’S ENTIRELY MY OWN FAULT,” SAID LYSANDER. “I knew you were crazy. Why did I follow you? Why? Why me? No, it’s your fault.”

  “Me? You’re the bard. You’re the one who’s supposed to know about this forest. And tying the rope to the tree was your idea!”

  “How was I to know that the trees moved?”

  Exhausted tears burned in Perryn’s eyes and he pulled off his spectacles to rub them. At least it was too dark for the bard to see him. “I still don’t believe it,” he muttered.

  “Either the trees moved or the road did. And the unicorn tracks, too. Can any of your books explain that?”

  “Maybe somewhere,” said Perryn, trying to control the quiver in his voice. “But if there’s a book that does, I haven’t read it.”

  They had followed the tracks backward until they ran into a grove of trees so dense they couldn’t get through. When they circled around it, they found no trace of unicorn tracks on the other side.

  With no other cour
se available to them, they followed the tracks back to the meadow with the stream. The sun was low when they reached it, clearly indicating which direction was west. They had entered the forest on the west side and moved east, so they decided to walk toward the sunset. They walked in a straight line for more than three hours.

  Perryn noticed unicorn tracks again and again. In spite of himself he began to follow them with his eyes, though his feet still followed the bard, until Lysander stepped out of the forest into a wide meadow with a stream running through it—a meadow they’d already seen twice. It felt strange, to hate the sight of such a beautiful place.

  “There are worse things than tears,” said Lysander gently. “I have a cousin who used to cry, and he outgrew it.”

  “When he was fourteen?” demanded Perryn. “I hate myself when I cry. But I can’t seem to help it.” He turned away.

  “I have an idea,” said Lysander. “Suppose we follow the stream. It will flow into something else eventually, maybe even the stream that crosses the road. We’ll have water, and if we’re lucky with snares, or perhaps catch a fish or two, we’ll have food for about four days. We’d make it. All we have to do is follow the stream.”

  “Unless it flows into a lake with no outlet. Or in a circle.”

  Lysander opened his mouth to say that a stream couldn’t flow in a circle, then shut it.

  “But I’ll bet,” Perryn continued, “that if the stream flows out of the forest, the trees won’t let us follow it.”

  “If you have a better idea, then by all means share it.”

  “I think I do,” said Perryn hesitantly. “The unicorn tracks don’t seem to be moving. I think that’s why the trees planted themselves so thickly in that one grove, because they had to cover them up.”