"Aye, my Lord Judge-General," Dennis said. "Thomas... he raved quite some time. We were closed up in the dark together long."
Dennis struggled to be clearer, but found no words to convey the horror of that closed-in passageway, with Thomas shrieking in the darkness before him and the dead King's few surviving dogs barking below them. No words to describe the smell of the place-a smell of secrets which had gone rancid like milk spilled in the dark. No words to tell of his growing fear that Thomas had gone mad while in the grip of his dream.
He had screamed the name of the King's magician over and over again; had begged the King to look deep into the goblet and see the mouse that simultaneously burned and drowned in the wine. Why do you stare at me so? he had shrieked. And then: I brought you a glass of wine, my King, to show you that I, too, love you. And finally he had shrieked out words that Peter himself would have recognized, words better than four hundred years old: 'Twas Flagg! Flagg! 'Twas Flagg!
Dennis reached for his cup, got it halfway to his mouth, and then dropped it. The cup shattered on the hearthstones.
The three of them looked at the shards of crockery.
"And then?" Peyna asked, in a deceptively gentle voice.
"Nothing for a long, long time," Dennis said in a halting voice. "My eyes had... had gotten used to the darkness, and I could see him a little. He was asleep... asleep at those two little holes, with his chin on his breast and his eyes closed."
"And he remained so for how long?"
"My Lord, I know not. The dogs had all quieted again. And perhaps l... I..."
"Dozed a bit yourself? I think it is likely, Dennis."
"Then, later, he seemed to wake. His eyes opened, at any rate. He closed the little panels and all was dark again. I heard him moving and I drew my legs back so he would not trip over them... his nightshirt... it brushed my face..."
Dennis grimaced as he remembered a feeling like cobwebs drawn in a whisper over his left cheek.
"I followed him. He let himself out... I followed still. He closed the door so that it looked like only plain stone wall again. He went back to his apartments and I followed him."
"Did you meet anyone?" Peyna rapped so sharply that Dennis jumped. "Anyone at all?"
"No. No, my Lord Judge-General. No one at all."
"Ah" Peyna relaxed. "That is very well. And did anything else happen that night?"
"No, my Lord. He went to bed and slept like a dead man." Dennis hesitated and then added, "I didn't sleep a wink, meself, and haven't slept many since, either."
"And in the morning he-?"
"Remembered nothing."
Peyna grunted. He steepled his fingers and looked at the dying fire through the little finger-building he had built.
"And did you go back to that passageway?"
Curiously, Dennis asked: "Would you have gone back, my Lord?"
"Yes," Peyna said dryly. "The question is, did you?"
"I did."
"Of course you did. Were you seen?"
"No. A chambermaid passed me in the hallway. The laundry is down that way, I think. I smelled lye soap, like my mum uses. When she was gone, I counted up four from the chipped stone and went in."
"To see what Thomas had seen."
"Aye, my Lord."
"And did you?"
"Aye, my Lord."
"And what was it?" Peyna asked, knowing. "When you slid aside those panels, what did you see?"
"My Lord, I saw King Roland's sitting room," Dennis said. "With all them heads on the walls. And... my Lord..." In spite of the heat of the dying fire, Dennis shuddered. "All of them heads... they seemed to be looking at me."
"But there was one head you didn't see," Peyna said.
"No, my Lord, I saw them a-" Dennis stopped, eyes wid-ening. "Niner!" He gasped. "The peepholes-" He stopped, his eyes now almost as big as saucers.
Silence fell again inside. Outside, the winter wind moaned and whined. And miles away, Peter, rightful King of Delain, hunched over a tiny loom high in the sky and wove a rope almost too fine to see.
At last, Peyna fetched a deep sigh. Dennis was looking up at him from his place on the hearth pleadingly... hopefully... fearfully. Peyna bent forward slowly and touched his shoul-der.
"You did well to come here, Dennis, son of Brandon. You did well to make a reason for your absence-quite a plausible one, I think. You'll sleep here with us tonight, in the attic, under the eaves. It'll be cold, but I think you'll sleep better than you have of late. Am I wrong?"
Dennis shook his head slowly once, and a tear spilled from his right eye and ran slowly down his cheek.
"And your mum knows naught of your reason for needing to be away?"
"No"
"Then the chances are very good she'll not be touched by it. Arlen will take you up. Those are his blankets, I think, and you'll have to return them. But there's straw above, and it's clean."
"I'll sleep just as well with only one blanket, my Lord," Arlen said.
"Hush! Young blood runs hot even in its sleep, Arlen. Your blood has cooled. And you may want your blankets... in case dwarves and trolls come in your dreams."