“You don’t look like your father, neither, Arlen, and it’s made me wonder more than once where your mother may have been,” the lumpish ghoul retorted rudely, and stuck a smudged envelope through the crack still open in the door. “Here… take it to ’im. I’ll wait. Close the door if you want, although it’s devilish cold out here.”
Arlen didn’t care if it was twenty below. He didn’t intend to have the horrible-looking fellow toasting his feet in front of the fire in the servants’ kitchen. He snatched the envelope, shut the door, bolted it, started away… then returned and double-bolted it.
57
Peyna was in his study, staring into the fire and thinking long thoughts. When Thomas had been crowned the moon had been new; it was not yet at the half, and already he did not like the way things were going. Flagg-that was the worst. Flagg. The magician already wielded more power than in the days of Roland’s reign. Roland had at least been a man, full of years, no matter how slow his thinking might have been. Thomas was only a boy, and Peyna feared that Flagg might soon control all Delain in Thomas’s name. That would be bad for the Kingdom… and bad for Anders Peyna, who had never concealed his dislike of Flagg.
It was pleasant here in the study, before the crackling fire, but Peyna thought he nonetheless felt a cold wind around his ankles. It was a wind which might rise and blow away… everything.
Why, Peter? Why, oh why? Why couldn’t you wait? And why did you have to seem so perfect on the outside, like a rose-red apple in autumn, and be so rotten below the skin? Why?
Peyna didn’t know… and would not admit to himself, even now, that doubts as to whether or not Peter really had been rotten were beginning to nibble at his heart.
There was a knock at the door.
Peyna roused himself, looked around, and called out impatiently: “Come! And it better be damned good!”
Arlen came in, looking ruffled and confused. He held an envelope in one hand.
“Well?”
“My Lord… there’s a man at the door… at least, he looks like a man… that is, his face is most awfully puffed and swelled, as if he had gotten a terrible beating… or…” Arlen’s voice trailed away.
“What’s that to do with me? You know I don’t receive this late. Tell him to go away. Tell him to go to the devil!”
“He says he’s Beson, my Lord,” Arlen said, more flustered than ever. He raised the smudged envelope, as if to use it as a shield. “He brought this. He says it’s a message from Prince Peter.”
Peyna’s heart leaped at that, but he only frowned more strenuously at Arlen.
“Well, is it?”
“From Prince Peter?” Arlen was almost gibbering now. His usual composure was utterly lost, and Peyna found this interesting. He wouldn’t have believed Arlen would lose his composure come fire, flood, or invasion of ravaging dragons. “My Lord, I would have no way of knowing… That is, I… I…”
“Is it Beson, you idiot?”
Arlen licked his lips-actually licked his lips. This was utterly unheard of. “Well, it might be, my Lord… it looks a bit like him… but the fellow on the doorstep is most awfully bruised and lumpy… I…” Arlen swallowed. “I thought he looked like a dwarf,” he said, bringing out the worst and then trying to soften it with a lame smile.
It is Beson, Peyna thought. It’s Beson and if he looks as if he’s been beaten it’s because Peter administered the beating. That’s why he brought the message. Because Peter beat him and he was afraid not to. A beating’s the only thing that convinces his sort.
There came a sudden feeling of exultation in Peyna’s heart: he felt as one might feel in a dark cave when a light suddenly shines out.
“Give me the letter,” he said.
Arlen did. He then made as if to scuttle out, and this was also something new, because Arlen did not scuttle. At least, Peyna thought, his mind lawyerly as always, I have never KNOWN him to scuttle.
He let Arlen get as far as the study door, as a veteran fisherman will let a hooked fish run, and then pulled him up short. “Arlen.”
Arlen turned back. He looked braced, as if to receive a reprimand.
“There are no more dwarves. Did your mother not tell you so?”
“Yes,” Arlen said reluctantly.
“Good for her. A wise woman. These dreams in your head must have come from your father. Let the Chief Warder in. To the servants’ kitchen,” he added hastily. “I have no wish to have him in here. He stinks. But let him into the servants’ kitchen so he may warm himself. The night is cold.” Since the death of Roland, Peyna reflected, all the nights had been cold, as if in reproach for the way the old King had burned, from the inside out.
“Yes, my Lord,” Arlen said with marked reluctance.
“I’ll ring for you shortly and tell you what to do with him.”
Arlen went out, a humbled man, and closed the door behind him.
Peyna turned the envelope over in his hands several times without opening it. The dirt was no doubt from Beson’s own greasy fingers. He could almost smell the villain’s sweat on the envelope. It had been sealed shut with a blot of common candle wax.
He thought, I would do better, perhaps, to throw this directly into the fire, and think of it no more. Yes, throw it into the fire, then ring Arlen and tell him to give the little hunched-over Chief Warder-he really DOES look like a dwarf; now that I think of it-a hot toddy and send him away. Yes, that is what I should do.
But he knew that he wouldn’t. That absurd feeling-that feel-ing that here was a ray of light in hopeless darkness-would not leave him. He put his thumb under the flap of the envelope, broke the seal, took out a brief letter, and read it by firelight.
58
Peyna I have decided to live.
I had read only a little about the Needle before I actually found myself in the place, and although I had heard a bit more, most of it was only gossip. One of the things I heard was that certain small favors might be purchased. It seems this really is so. I of course have no money, but I thought you might perhaps defray my expenses in this matter. I did you a favor not long ago, and if you were to pay the Chief Warder a sum of eight guilders-such sum to be paid anew at the beginning of each year I spend in this unhappy place-I would consider the favor repaid. This sum, you will notice, is very small. That is because I require only two things. If you will arrange for Beson to “wet his beak” so that I may have them, I’ll trouble you no more.
I am aware that you would be put in a bad light if it came out that you have helped me, even in a small way. I suggest that you make my friend Ben your go-between, if you decide to do as I ask. I have not spoken to Ben since my arrest, but I think and hope he remains true to me. I would ask him rather than you, but the Staads are not well off, and Ben has no money of his own. It shames me to ask money from anyone, but there is no other to whom I may turn. If you feel you cannot do as I request, I will understand.
I did not murder my father.
Peter
59
Peyna looked at this amazing letter for quite some time. His eyes kept returning to the first line, and the last.
I have decided to live.
I did not murder my father.
It did not surprise him that the boy continued to protest-he had known criminals to go on for years and years protesting their innocence of crimes of which they were patently guilty. But it was not like a guilty man to be so bald in his own defense. So… so commanding.
Yes, that was what bothered him most about the letter-its tone of command. A true King, Peyna felt, would not be changed by exile; not by prison; not even by torture. A true King would not waste time justifying or explaining. He would simply state his will.
I have decided to live.
Peyna sighed. After a long time, he drew his inkpot to him, took a sheet of fine parchment from his drawer, and wrote upon it. His note was even shorter than Peter’s had been. It took him less than five minutes to write it, blot it, sand it, fold it, and seal it shut. With that done, he rang for Arlen.