I could see the king, glowering at us.
“Well, of course,” snapped Edmund, irritated that I should venture to tell him his duty. “I would have done so in any case. I will mention the matter to my father.”
Oh, Edmund, if only I had said more. If only you had said less. If only. Our lives are made up of “if onlys.”
“Father, Baltazar thinks the path around the lake may be dangerous. You stay behind with the people and let me take the soldiers—”
“Danger!” the old king flared, with a fire that had not burned in either body or mind for a long, long rime. Alas, that it should have blazed forth now! “Danger, and you tell me to stay behind! I am king. Or, at least, I was.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed. “I have noticed that you—with Baltazar’s help, no doubt—are attempting to subvert the people’s loyalty. I’ve seen you and the necromancer off in your dark corners, plotting and scheming. It won’t work. The people will follow me, as they have always followed me!”
I heard. Everyone heard. The king’s accusation echoed through the cavern. It was all I could do to keep from rushing forward and throttling the old man with my bare hands. I cared nothing for what he thought of me. My heart burned from the pain of the wound I saw inflicted on his son.
If only that fool king had known what a loyal and devoted son he had! If only he could have seen Edmund during those long, dreary cycles, walking by his father’s side, listening patiently to the old man’s mad ramblings. If only he could have seen Edmund, time and again, refuse to accept the crown, although the council knelt at his feet and begged him! If only ...
But, no more. One must not speak ill of the dead. I can only assume some lingering madness put such ideas in the king’s mind.
Edmund had gone deathly white, but he spoke with a quiet dignity that became him well. “You have misunderstood me, Father. It was necessary for me to take on myself certain responsibilities, to make certain decisions during the time of your recent illness. Reluctantly, I did so, as any here”—he gestured to the people, who were staring at their king in shock—“will tell you. No one is more pleased than I am to see you take, once more, your rightful place as ruler of the people of Kairn Telest.”
Edmund glanced at me, asking me silently if I wanted to reply to the accusation. I shook my head, kept my mouth closed. How could I, in honesty, deny the wish that had been in my heart, if not on my lips?
His son’s words had an effect on the old king. He looked ashamed, as well he might! He started to reach out his hand, started to say something, perhaps apologize, take his son in his arms, beg his forgiveness. But pride—or madness—got the better of him. The king looked over at me, his face hardened. He turned and stalked oft calling loudly for the soldiers.
“Some of you come with me,” the king commanded. “The rest of you stay here and guard the people from whatever danger the necromancer theorizes is about to befall us. He is full of theories, our necromancer. His latest is that he fancies himself the father of my son!”
Edmund started forward, burning words on his lips. I caught hold of his arm, held him back, shaking my head.
The king set off for the tunnel exit, followed by a small troop of about twenty. The exit was a narrow opening in the rock. The file of Soldiers, walking shoulder to shoulder, would have a difficult time squeezing their way through. In the distance, through the opening, the fiery light of the Lake of Burning Rock gleamed a fierce, bright red.
The people looked at each other, looked at Edmund. They seemed uncertain what to do or say. A few of the council members, however, shook their heads and made clucking sounds with their tongues. Edmund cast them a furious glance, and they immediately ftfl silent. When the king reached the end of the tunnel, he turned to face us.
“You and your necromancer stay with the people, Son,” he shouted, and the sneer that curled his lip was audible in his voice.
“Your king will return and tell you when it is safe to proceed.” Accompanied by his soldiers, he walked out of the tunnel. If only . . .
Dragons possess remarkable intelligence. One is tempted to say Malevolent intelligence, but, in fairness, who are we to judge a creature our ancestors hunted almost to extinction? I have no doubt that, if the dragons could or would speak to us, they would remind us that they have good cause to hate us.
Not that this makes it any easier.
“I should have gone with him!” were the first words Edmund spoke to me, when I gently tried to remove his arms from around his father’s broken, bleeding body. “I should have been at his side!”
If, at any moment in my life, I was ever tempted to believe that there might be an immortal plan, a higher power.... But no. To all my other faults, I will not add blasphemy!
As his father had commanded him, Edmund stayed behind. He stood tall, dignified, his face impassive. But I, who know him so well, understood that what he longed to do was run after his father. He wanted to explain, to try to make his father understand. If only Edmund had done so, perhaps the old king might have relented and apologized. Perhaps the tragedy would never have occurred.
Edmund is, as I have said, young and proud. He was angry—justifiably so. He had been insulted in front of all the people. He had not been in the wrong. He would not make the first move toward reconciliation. His body trembled with the force of his inheld rage. He stared out the tunnel, said no word. No one said anything. We waited in silence for what seemed to me to be an interminable length of time.
What was wrong? They could have circumnavigated the lake by now, I was thinking to myself, when the scream resounded down the runnel, echoed horribly off the cavern walls.
All of us recognized the voice of the king. I... and his son .. -recognized it as a warning, recognized it as his death cry.
The scream was awful, first choked with terror, then agonized, bubbling with pain. It went on and on, and its dreadful echo reverberated from the rock walls, screamed death to us over and over.
I have never in my life heard anything to equal it. I hope I never hear anything like it again. The scream might have turned the people to stone, as does, purportedly, the look of the legendary basilisk. I know that I stood frozen to the spot, my limbs paralyzed, my mind in little better condition.
The scream jolted Edmund to action.
“Father!” he shouted, and all the love that he had longed for during all the years of his life was in that cry. And, just as in his life, his cry went unanswered.
The prince ran forward, alone.
I heard the clattering of weapons and the confused sounds of battle and, above that, a dreadful roaring. I could now give a name to my fear. I knew now what the runes on the map meant.
The sight of Edmund rushing to meet the same fate as his father impelled me, at last, to act. Swiftly, with what remaining strength I had left, I wove a magical spell, like the nets in which we’d caught the fish across the tunnel exit. Edmund saw it, tried to ignore it. He crashed full-force into it, fought and struggled against it. Drawing his sword, he attempted to cut his way through.
My magic, its power heightened by my fear for him, was strong. He couldn’t get out, nor could the fire dragon—on the other side—break through the net.
At least, I hoped it couldn’t. I have studied what the ancients wrote about such creatures, and it is my belief that they underestimated the dragon’s intelligence. To be safe, I ordered the people to retreat farther back down the tunnel, telling them to hide in whatever passages they could find. They fled like scared mice, council members and all, and soon no one was left in the front part of the cavern but myself and Edmund.
He struck at me, in his frustration. He pleaded with me, he begged me, he threatened to kill me if I did not remove the magical net I remained adamant. I could see, now, around the shores of the lake, the terrible carnage taking place.