How could Thomas compare with goodness like that? A simple question with a simple answer. He couldn’t.
Unlike Peter, Thomas was the spitting image of his father. This pleased the old man a little, but it didn’t give him the pleasure most men feel when they have a son who carries the clear stamp of their features. Looking at Thomas was too much like looking into a sly mirror. He knew that Thomas’s fine blond hair would gray early and then begin to fall out; Thomas would be bald by the time he was forty. He knew that Thomas would never be tall, and if he had his father’s appetite for beer and mead, he would be carrying a big belly before him by the time he was twenty-five. Already his toes had begun to turn in, and Roland guessed Thomas would walk with his own bowlegged swagger.
Thomas was not exactly a good boy, but you must not think that made him a bad boy. He was sometimes a sad boy, often a confused boy (he took after his father in another way, as well, hard thinking made his nose stuffy and his head feel like boulders were rolling around inside), and often a jealous boy, but he wasn’t a bad boy.
Of whom was he jealous? Why, of his brother, of course. He was jealous of Peter. It wasn’t enough that Peter would be King, Oh no! It wasn’t enough that their father liked Peter best, or that the servants liked Peter best, or that their teachers liked Peter best because he was always ready at lessons and didn’t need to be coaxed. It wasn’t enough that everyone liked Peter best, or that Peter had a best friend. There was one more thing.
When anyone looked at Thomas, his father the King most of all, Thomas thought he knew they were thinking: We loved your mother and you killed her in your coming. And what did we get out of the pain and death you caused her? A dull little boy with a round face that has hardly any chin, a dull little boy who couldn’t make all fifteen of the Great Letters until he was eight. Your brother Peter was able to make them all when he was six. What did we get? Not much. Why did you come, Thomas? What good are you? Throne insurance? Is that all you are? Throne insurance in case Peter the Precious should fall off his limping nag and crack his head open? Is that all? Well, we don’t want you. None of us want you. None of us want you…
The part Thomas played in his brother’s imprisonment was dishonorable, but even so he was not a really bad boy. I believe this, and hope that in time you will come to believe it, too.
16
Once, as a boy of seven, Thomas spent a whole day laboring in his room, carving his father a model sailboat. He did it with no way of knowing that Peter had covered himself with glory that day on the archery range, with his father in attendance. Peter was not, ordinarily, much of a bowman-in that area, at least, Thomas would turn out to be far superior to his older brother-but on that one day, Peter had shot the junior course of targets like one inspired. Thomas was a sad boy, a confused boy, and he was often an unlucky boy.
Thomas had thought of the boat because sometimes, on Sun-day afternoons, his father liked to go out to the moat which surrounded the palace and float a variety of model boats. Such simple pleasures made Roland extremely happy, and Thomas had never forgotten one day when his father had taken him and just him-along. In those days, his father had an advisor whose only job was to show Roland how to make paper boats, and the King had conceived a great enthusiasm for them. On this day, a hoary old carp had risen out of the mucky water and swallowed one of Roland’s paper boats whole. Roland had laughed like a boy and declared it was better than a tale about a sea monster. He hugged Thomas very tight as he said so. Thomas never forgot that day-the bright sunshine, the damp, slightly moldy odor of the moat water, the warmth of his father’s arms, the scratchiness of his beard.
So, feeling particularly lonely one day, he had hit on the idea of making his father a sailboat. It would not be a really great job, and Thomas knew it-he was almost as clumsy with his hands as he was at memorizing his lessons. But he also knew that his father could have any craftsman in Delain-even the great Ellender himself, who was now almost completely blind, make him boats if he so desired. The crucial difference, Thomas thought, would be that Roland’s own son had taken a whole day to carve him a boat for his Sunday pleasure.
Thomas sat patiently by his window, urging the boat out of a block of wood. He used a sharp knife, nicked himself times without number, and cut himself quite badly once. Yet he kept on, aching hands or no. As he worked he daydreamed of how he and his father would go out on Sunday afternoon and sail the boat, just the two of them all alone, because Peter would be riding Peony in the woods or off playing with Ben. And he wouldn’t even mind if that same carp came up and ate his wooden boat, because then his father would laugh and hug him and say it was better than a story of sea monsters eating Anduan clipper ships whole.
But when he got to the King’s chamber Peter was there and Thomas had to wait for nearly half an hour with the boat hidden behind his back while his father extolled Peter’s bowmanship.
Thomas could see that Peter was uncomfortable under the un-ceasing barrage of praise. He could also see that Peter knew Thomas wanted to talk to their father, and that Peter kept trying to tell their father so. It didn’t matter, none of it mattered. Thomas hated him anyway.
At last Peter was allowed to escape. Thomas approached his father, who looked at him kindly enough now that Peter was gone. “I made you something, Dad,” he said, suddenly shy. He held the boat behind his back with hands that were suddenly wet and clammy with sweat.
“Did you now, Tommy?” Roland said. “Why, that was kind, wasn’t it?”
“Very kind, Sire,” said Flagg, who happened to be idling nearby. He spoke casually but watched Thomas with bright interest.
“What is it, lad? Show me!”
“I remembered how much you liked to have a boat or two out on the moat Sunday afternoons, Dad, and…” He wanted desperately to say, and I wanted you to take me out with you again sometime, so I made this, but he found he could not utter such a thing. “… and so I made you a boat… I spent a whole day… cut myself… and… and…” Sitting in his win-dow seat, carving the boat, Thomas had made up a long, elo-quent speech which he would utter before bringing the boat out from behind his back and presenting it with a flourish to his father, but now he could hardly remember a word of it, and what he could remember didn’t seem to make any sense.
Horribly tongue-tied, he took the sailboat with its awkward flapping sail out from behind his back and gave it to Roland. The King turned it over in his big, short-fingered hands. Thomas stood and watched him, totally unaware that he had forgotten to breathe.
At last Roland looked up. “Very nice, Very nice, Tommy. Canoe, isn’t it?”
“Sailboat.” Don’t you see the sail? he wanted to cry. It took me an hour alone just to tie the knots, and it isn’t my fault one of them came loose so it flaps!
The King fingered the striped sail, which Thomas had cut from a pillowcase.
“So it is… of course it is. At first I thought it was a canoe and this was some Oranian girl’s washing.” He tipped a wink at Flagg, who smiled vaguely at the air and said nothing. Thomas suddenly felt he might vomit quite soon.