“Do you say the reeves and ministers are the noblemen of this land?” Orgoru asked, still parched.
“They are the equivalents, yes.”
Orgoru lay unmoving still, his thoughts racing.
“Be what you are.” The Wizard’s ice-blue eyes pierced to Orgoru’s core again.
And suddenly, miraculously, Orgoru was. He was simply and only Orgoru, the son of a peasant, and could accept the fact. But within him burned the desire to become in fact what he had been in pretense—one of the aristocrats of his world. Within him was now a granite core of determination. He would learn to read and write, he would learn the Protector’s laws and procedures, he would become a magistrate!
Then wonder grew and filled him, wonder that he could now see that the Prince of Paradime had been only pretense, wonder that he could accept the truth of his own state.
“Yes, you can regain your life of luxury,” the Wizard told him, “but noblesse oblige—nobility imposes obligations. You must earn your rank by fulfilling the duties that go with it—securing the welfare of your fellow peasants. Then you shall become a magistrate or reeve in reality, instead of a prince in illusion.”
Orgoru groaned as the memory of the gilded life he had just begun to lead overwhelmed him, of the beautiful women and noble men whom he would no doubt now discover were really very ordinary. “I’d prefer the illusion!”
“Then you may have it,” the Wizard declared, “if you first help your fellow peasants to win their freedom. Help them to overthrow the Protector, become one of the new magistrates who serve the people rather than their overlord, see the new government firmly established—and I will send you back into your delusion. But you must earn it first.”
Orgoru stared. “What is this talk of overthrow? Of new magistrates?”
But the Wizard had begun to shrink, and Orgoru realized he was receding, going away. “Don’t leave!” Orgoru cried. “Tell me first!”
“Ask the giant,” the Wizard said. Then he shrank abruptly to a little white ball, racing away from Orgoru, becoming only a dot that winked out, and was gone.
Orgoru hung suspended in darkness with hope blooming in him. If there was truly a chance to bring down the Protector and the vicious magistrates who served him, then there would really be a chance for Orgoru to become a magistrate himself! But how was this all to be done? The Wizard had said to ask the giant—but which giant? Where? How would Orgoru find him?
“Where?” he cried, flailing about. “Where is he?” His arm struck something solid. He turned to look, and saw brown trouser thighs with huge hands resting on them. Looking up, he saw Gar looming over him, huge against darkness, and realized he was the giant!
Then Orgoru realized that he was awake.
He opened his mouth to demand Gar tell him how to overthrow the Protector—then realized that the giant was swaying, eyes still closed, sweat streaming down his face. His eyelids opened; he looked down at Orgoru with unutterable weariness and said, “Forgive me, but I can’t tell you now. Please rise from that bed, for I need it.”
Orgoru stared, not understanding, not even knowing he had been on a bed.
Then Dirk came up beside Gar, reaching down toward Orgoru. “Up, my friend. He has cured you; he has earned his rest.”
Orgoru understood enough to seize Dirk’s hand and scramble to his feet. Gar swayed, then leaned, then fell, crashing down onto the bed of pine boughs, his eyes closing.
Orgoru stared. “Why is he so tired?”
“Because he has just finished a very hard task,” Dirk explained, “and on top of that, he was worried about your health, after that blow on the head.”
Orgoru felt his head, frowning, but found no lump. “I don’t remember being struck.”
“You were,” Dirk assured him, “where it counted most. You understand what you have to do now?”
“Only in broad outline,” Orgoru sighed, “but I will undertake it, for the reward promised me. What must I do first?”
“Nothing much,” Dirk told him. “Go back into the city and pretend to be the Prince of Paradime still—but whenever anybody wakes up from delusion, talk to them and reassure them. When you’ve all been cured, we’ll tell you how to overthrow the Protector and the magistrates who have become corrupt. Then we’ll start your training.”
Training? Orgoru wondered what kind of training he could mean.
Distant shouts came thinly through the dead pine needles. Dirk raised his head. “Your friends have found out you’re missing, and are coming back for you. Actually, they’ve been searching for you, and for us, all night. Tell them you fell and hit your head, and just woke up. Come on.”
He led the way out of the lean-to. Orgoru stared at it in surprise; he hadn’t known he was in it. He also hadn’t known how much time had passed, but the forest around him glowed with the twilight of false dawn. Then he looked up, and saw Ciletha standing next to the stocky man he remembered as Gar and Dirk’s servant. What was he really?
“Orgoru!” Ciletha cried in a voice that was half a sob, and ran to him. Orgoru held her against his chest, bemused, amazed at her embrace, beset by a feeling of newness, as though he had never seen the world before. Is this what it’s like to see everything as it really is? Aloud, he soothed, “Don’t worry, Ciletha. I’m all right. In fact, I’m better than I’ve ever been.”
She pulled back, staring up at him, face stained with tears. “Are you … are you still…”
“The Prince of Paradime?” Orgoru smiled and shook his head. “No. I’m cured of that.”
But why was the stocky man—Miles, that’s what his name was!—why was he standing so stiffly, looking so grim?
The shouting was coming closer. “I must go,” Orgoru said, and stepped away from Ciletha with a quick pat on her shoulder.
“This way.” Dirk led him between a huge old elm and a hickory. He stopped halfway through and faded back out of sight. Orgoru saw the dim trail and stepped forward just as the “aristocrats” burst into sight.
Orgoru was shaken to his core. Admittedly, their finery was torn and bedraggled from briars, and from leaves laden with dew—but the colors were so garish! And the people were so common! Moon-faced or gaunt, short and round or tall and skinny—where were the elegant forms he remembered?
Was this how he really looked?
The thought was almost enough to send him back into madness, but a fat little man with a full crown came bustling up to him, and a voice he recognized demanded, “Prince of Paradime! Where have you been?”
Orgoru stared. Could this rotund commoner really be King Longar? But where was the imposing stature, the commanding mien?
He shook himself and forced a smile. “I must have struck my head on a tree branch as I searched for you, Your Majesty, for I’ve only just now waked up, and my head aches abominably.” The first part was true, anyway.
“Well, let us rejoice that you are restored to us!” King Longar reached up to clap him on the shoulder.
Up? It should have been down! He’d been taller than Orgoru—at least in delusion.
“Come, back to the city!” the king called to his noblemen. “It’s a great victory, for we’ve driven off the invaders and rescued one of our own!”
The men gave a single, unified cheer, and turned back toward the city. Orgoru jostled along in their midst, forcing himself to smile and bow and joke with them about their wonderful night’s work. He knew that the tale of this adventure would swell till a whole army took the place of Gar, Dirk, and Miles, and Orgoru would be torn from their evil clutches before the aristocrats fought the army into, a rout. Looking about, he could see that they believed it already, and it hadn’t even been put into words.