The Prophecy Page 7

  Perryn pushed past the unicorn to where the bard had stood. The shallow pool, mere inches deep, had been concealed by the reeds. The bard lay in it, unmoving…face down.

  “Lysander!” Perryn started forward.

  “Don’t!” A spiraled horn barred his path, like a guardsman’s lance. “He’s soaked. You’d only fall asleep yourself.”

  “But he’ll drown! Maybe I can pull him out with a stick.” Perryn glanced around frantically, but he saw nothing large enough to serve the purpose.

  Prism shivered delicately and stepped into the water. The ripples that spread from her dainty hooves caught the moonlight like mirrors.

  She bent her neck and dipped her horn into the pool, thrusting it beneath the bard’s unconscious body. With a graceful heave she lifted her head. The bard slid down her neck and back into the water.

  Perryn reached for him.

  “No.” Prism lowered her head again. This time the bard’s limp body fell over her withers. Prism waited until his weight settled, then walked carefully out of the swamp. A quick shake slid Lysander off her back. She reached down and touched his throat with the tip of her horn. The bard’s lungs heaved, and he choked and began to cough.

  “You can touch him now.” Prism moved a few paces away, her head bowed.

  Lysander’s coughs were interspersed with curses. He seemed to be recovering, so Perryn followed the unicorn.

  “What is it, Prism? What’s wrong?”

  “Where is it?” asked the unicorn.

  “Where’s what?”

  “The dark spot.”

  “But you hardly got dirty at all.” Perryn brushed a few flecks of mud from her coat. One spot refused to yield and Perryn looked closer. A gray dapple the size of a thumbprint marked her right wither, and it wasn’t dirt.

  “That wasn’t there before, was it?”

  “No,” said Prism. “I had managed to avoid situations that…that demanded action on my part.” She turned her head to study the dapple sadly.

  “I don’t understand,” said Perryn.

  “I suppose not. Have you ever wondered why unicorns are so seldom seen? You saw the tracks of dozens of unicorns in the forest, but you saw only me.”

  “I thought…I guess I never thought about it.”

  “The reason you didn’t see the others is because the older unicorns are grayed. Spotted like this all over. The more spots, the less white, the harder they are for humans to see. Some very old unicorns are nearly black.” Prism shuddered. “Even other unicorns can barely see them. When a unicorn becomes wholly black, it’s gone forever.”

  Gone. Did she mean death, or something else? No wonder she didn’t like getting dirty! None of the books he’d read had ever mentioned any of this. Perryn groped for the right words.

  “If it’s just, well, part of getting older…”

  “It isn’t,” said Prism. “You get dark spots only when you do good deeds. That’s how unicorn magic works. When you purify something you draw the evil and corruption into yourself, and because impurity cannot live in a unicorn, it vanishes. But it leaves a spot like that.” She looked at the dapple and winced.

  “Then I’d think you’d be proud of it.”

  “Of course, the darker the unicorn, the more it’s respected.” Prism eyed the dapple more tolerantly. “It is the honorable destiny of unicorns to darken. In fact, some have accused me of shirking my duty. Maybe they won’t be so condescending now.” Then she shuddered again. “But to vanish? To get darker and darker until you’re obliterated?”

  “Then why did you promise to heal us?” Lysander joined them, still dripping and blinking sleepily.

  Prism hung her head. “You both looked so healthy. I thought you might get hurt on your quest, but I didn’t think you were likely to fall ill or get poisoned. The truth is, I didn’t think I’d have to do anything.”

  “Will you still come with us?” Perryn asked.

  “Certainly.” Prism looked shocked. “I gave my word. Besides, you have a prophecy. It doesn’t say anything about the unicorn getting hurt, does it?”

  “No,” said Perryn. “It doesn’t say whether anyone gets hurt. Only that we’ll succeed.”

  “You promised I wouldn’t have to do anything dangerous.” Prism sounded calmer now. “And you’re unlikely to get sick again. By the way, what does the prophecy say we’re going to do?”

  Perryn hesitated, but there was no use putting it off. “We’re going to slay the dragon.”

  Prism fainted.

  “The sword was placed in the tomb of my ancestor,” said Prince Perryndon. “It is part of my history, my heritage. I know where it lies.”

  8

  WITH THE AID OF A LONG BRANCH, PERRYN FINALLY succeeded in filling a flask with water from the black bog.

  “I still can’t think why you want the stuff,” said Lysander. They were waiting for the outside of the flask to dry so Perryn could handle it. “Not to mention the fact that now you have nothing in which to carry your drinking water.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” said Perryn. “The stream that fills this marsh comes out of the forest. I’ll bet the sleepiness in this water should be part of the trees, but the magic of the forest drains it out of them and into the water. That’s why the trees are so lively and the water makes you sleep.”

  “You may be right,” said the bard. “So what?”

  “Well, Malthin the sorcerer wrote that the only way to fight a magical creature is with magic. That’s why I started doing research, to find some kind of magic that might work against the dragon—but there wasn’t much. So it seems to me that if I find something magical, I ought to use it. Or try to, anyway.”

  “But if dragons could be defeated with magic, then wouldn’t the Norse just defeat them, instead of…appeasing them, the way they do?” Lysander asked.

  “I’ve thought about that, too,” said Perryn. “We know that the Norse claim to have more control over magic than we do, but if that’s true why don’t they use it against our army? So I think the rumor that they’re controlling the dragon must be exaggerated.”

  “I don’t know,” said Lysander. “And since I never intend to get within five miles of any Norsemen, I don’t much care. Just remember, if we come to the dragon part, I’m leaving.”

  “I think it makes a great deal of sense,” said Prism. “You say the next thing we need is the Sword of Samhain? Where do we go for that?”

  “It’s in the tomb of Albion, the twenty-seventh warrior-king,” said Perryn, gingerly capping his flask. “Lysander will know where that is.”

  “I will?” said Lysander.

  “You mean you don’t? I thought all the songs about the warrior-kings’ deaths talked about their burials!”

  “Certainly. They tell about the speeches people made, and who was there, and even what they wore and ate, but for some reason they never give you explicit directions to the barrow. Haven’t you ever heard of grave robbers, Your Highness?”

  “None of my books said anything about grave robbers,” Perryn protested. He was beginning to wonder if the information in his library tower was as complete as he had once believed.

  “That settles that,” said the bard. “We can’t find the barrow, we can’t find the sword, we can’t fulfill the prophecy. Let’s go south.”

  “No,” said Perryn.

  “Do you know where the barrow is?”

  “No, but I think I can find out. Let’s camp here tonight.”

  PRISM SLEPT MORE LIGHTLY THAN LYSANDER, BUT finally Perryn was able to take the mirror aside and rest its cool weight on his lap.

  “Mirror of Idris,” he whispered, “will you show me the location of King Albion’s tomb?”

  A familiar image flashed to the surface—a road, with another, smaller track branching off into the low, scrub-covered hills. It was day in the image this time, but it was the same fork in the road Perryn had seen before. And it was still empty.

  Perryn frowned. How could this be import
ant? It certainly wasn’t the location of King Albion’s tomb, for none of the kings was buried near any roads. After Lysander talked about tomb robbers, Perryn had realized why all the barrows were located in isolated hills and valleys.

  “Thank you,” he told the mirror politely. The image of the empty road lingered for a moment before it faded. But the mirror’s failure left only one other option—his library.

  On one hand, at least Perryn’s father wouldn’t be there. On the other hand, Cedric and the guards would. But if neither the mirror nor Lysander could help him, Perryn had no choice. He had to go home.

  “YOU’RE GOING TO BREAK INTO IDRIS CASTLE? This is carrying your fantasy of being a prince too far. They’ll hang us by the thumbs when we get caught!” said Lysander.

  “No, they won’t.” Perryn pushed a low branch out of the way. The shortcut through the woods to the castle was somewhat overgrown. “I’ll tell them you were protecting me and that you tricked me into coming back. My father will probably reward you.”

  “How much? Oh, all right. I suppose I might convince them that I believed your story about being Prince Perryndon, though that’s pretty thin—but what would they do to you?”

  “Nothing,” said Perryn. “Oh, I suppose the guards would lock me in my room till my father gets back. But if I’m imprisoned, that will mean the end of the prophecy!” And possibly his death, if Cedric could contrive his “accident” before the king returned. The one good thing about this was that Idris Castle was the last place Cedric would expect to find him.

  Perryn had asked the mirror for the location of King Albion’s tomb several times on the four days’ journey back to the castle but it had shown him nothing, except once, when he’d seen an old man on a stream bank fishing for trout. He shouldn’t ask too much of the mirror, he reminded himself. They had to do this. Though if Cedric caught him…

  “I’d say good riddance to the prophecy,” said Lysander. “Except that it would also be the end of us.”

  “Be quiet,” said Perryn. “We’re almost out of the trees. The guards might hear us.”

  “And they might shoot before they discover who you are,” said Prism uneasily. “I’m not sure this is such a good idea.”

  The bard came to a stop, looking over the cleared space that surrounded the castle. “I never noticed how formidable it is. Prissy-prim is right. We’ll all get shot crossing the cleared ground.”

  “No, we won’t,” said Perryn confidently. “I crossed it when I ran away with no trouble and the moon was brighter then. Besides, I thought you liked adventure.”

  “Adventure is one thing, suicide is another.” Lysander insisted. “You didn’t have a snow-white unicorn with you before. The guards would have to be stone blind not to see her. Unicorn soup was a delicacy in the elder days, wasn’t it?”

  “No,” said Perryn. “Stop doing that. Prism, take deep breaths and try to calm down. You have to learn not to faint, before we go against the drag—. Take a deep breath, and hold your head down! There, that’s better.”

  He had wondered what they would do with Prism, traveling on the road, but the unicorn displayed an amazing ability to hide herself whenever they heard someone approaching. Crossing an open meadow on a clear night, that wouldn’t be an option.

  “Much use she’ll be,” said the bard. “If we’re really going to do this, we’d better leave her here.”

  “You’re right,” said Perryn. “She does show up in the dark, and we don’t have any garments left that are big enough to cover her. Though we could rub her with dirt. I think you’d better stay here, Prism.”

  “Gladly,” said the unicorn. “How long shall I wait? I mean, not to be indelicate, but suppose you don’t come back?”

  “Wait till morning,” said Perryn. “We should be back long before then. Lysander, get ready to run when that guard walks away. Keep low and stay in the bushes.

  “Yes, Your Highness,” said the bard sardonically. “What were you really when you worked here? A stable boy? Kitchen—”

  “Now!” Perryn darted off, Lysander scrambling at his heels.

  It took longer without the wind-blown clouds that had aided Perryn’s escape, but they reached the base of the wall without being seen. The guards in the parapet above them would have to lean far over the edge to see them now.

  “I have to talk to my father about this,” Perryn murmured. “We keep such a careful watch for the dragon that anyone could get into this place from the ground.”

  “We’re not in yet,” the bard whispered back. “How do you propose to get through the wall? Scuttle through the cracks like rats?”

  “Exactly.” Perryn moved down the wall. He might have missed the low grating, if his feet hadn’t sunk into the mud.

  “It’s here.” He knelt and quietly began pulling up clumps of grass. “It’s a sewer, a small stream that runs right under the castle. The grating is almost rusted away. Father keeps talking about replacing it, but he never does. That’s what made me think of it.”

  “The old sewer, I hope? It hasn’t been used in years?”

  “Sorry,” said Perryn. “But this is the side that flows into the castle so it shouldn’t be too bad.” The bars of the grating hardly made a sound as they broke under his hands.

  “You didn’t come out this way,” the bard observed softly.

  Perryn shook his head. He took off his spectacles and tucked them into his belt pouch.

  “Then why aren’t we going in the same way you came out, Your Highness?”

  “Because they pulled up the blankets. Follow me.” Perryn lowered himself into the mud and wiggled through the opening.

  The sewer culvert seemed very long. At times the mud was so deep that Perryn had to turn his head sideways against the ceiling to keep his mouth above the water. Finally his searching fingers touched dry stone, with open space beyond, and he pulled himself out onto the cold floor.

  There was no light at all. Perryn took out his spectacles, rinsed them in the stream, and put them on, but he still couldn’t see anything except darkness. He heard splashing as the bard struggled free of the culvert, and groped for his hands to help him out.

  “It’s a good thing we didn’t try to bring Prism with us,” said Perryn. His mud-soaked clothes clung to his body.

  “Where are we?” the bard demanded. “I can’t see a thing. How are we going to get out of here?”

  “Find a wall and follow it,” Perryn told him. “This corridor goes straight to the wine cellar stairs. But don’t go through any doors. This is the old dungeon and there are oubliettes in some of the cells. Most of the trapdoors are pretty rotten too.”

  “What a nasty thought.” The bard groped for a wall.

  “No one’s been dropped into them for, oh, centuries now,” said Perryn. “And even in the old days, Idris’ kings were more inclined to chop peoples’ heads off than to starve them to death.”

  “How do you know all this?” Lysander asked. “Were you a clerk here?”

  Perryn sighed. “It’s the easiest way into the castle.”

  “Then why did Your Highness have to climb down blankets?”

  “Personal reasons. Are you afraid of rats?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Good, because I am. You go first.”

  There were rats. Perryn could hear them, scuttling away from the noise of their footsteps. Claws scratched on the stone flags and small bodies rustled in the dark. Sweat broke out on his muddy face. There must be hundreds of them! He ran into the bard’s back.

  “What are you doing? We have to keep moving! They’ll come if we’re quiet.” Perryn stamped his feet furiously.

  “Don’t make such a fuss,” said the bard. “It’s only a few rats. I’ve run into the stairs but I can’t find a railing.”

  “There probably isn’t one; this is the oldest part of the castle. Get going!”

  The bard hesitated a long moment before starting up the dark stairs. The rats seemed to grow fewer as they climbed,
but Perryn was shaking when they reached the top.

  “No more steps,” said Lysander.

  “Th-this is the wine cellar.” Perryn’s teeth were chattering. “Keep following the wall.”

  “You really are afraid of rats, aren’t you?” A hollow thud echoed softly. “Ah.” The bard sounded pleased. “Wine barrel. You were right. I’ve been here before.” He moved faster, thumping the barrels as he went.

  “I know; I heard about it. Were you really down here stealing the wine?”

  “Just a few bottles,” said Lysander. “The steward here is a most miserly man. I mean, even if the king wasn’t in residence to hear me play, this is the palace! And I should have been paid accordingly.”

  “But why wine? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink more than a mug of beer—and not often even that.” Accustomed to the amount his father drank, the bard’s abstinence seemed almost unnatural to Perryn.

  “Drinking’s bad for the voice,” said Lysander. “But low pay is bad for the whole bard! Bad for all bards, everywhere, if you let them get away with it. I regard it as my duty to my craft brothers to—hold up.”

  Perryn bumped into his back. “What is it?”

  “I’ve found the door.” A soft rattle sounded. “But it’s locked. It wasn’t locked the last time.”

  “Someone must have decided to take a few precautions against wandering bards,” said Perryn. “What are we going to do? If we wait for someone to open the door in the morning, Prism will be gone.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  Perryn heard the bard fumbling in the darkness, then a scraping sound. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing much. But since stewards take precautions against crafty bards, a bard must take steps to thwart miserly stewards. There!”

  A sharp click sounded and the door swung open. The dim light of the kitchen fires seemed bright as it washed into the black cellar. The bard slipped a small, gleaming tool into his belt.

  “Lock pick?”

  Lysander grinned. “Just a precaution. After you, Prince Perryndon.”