Pierce let go of his father. The slight, cob-haired Lord Skelton eased
through the brawny crush of knights as if they were not there. Behind his
circular lenses, his unblinking eyes seemed enormous. They caught at Pierce,
held him; he could not look away. Leith said something; he scarcely heard it,
so compelling was the magus’s focus on him.
The magus reached them finally, stood silently, his gaze like a mist enfolding
Pierce, separating him from time, past and present, giving him nothing to see
except himself and the confusion of unknowns surrounding his next step.
Lord Skelton blinked, set them both free in the world again, and smiled.
“You,” he said, “have already begun.”
The wyvern was not far behind the magus.
The king had, it seemed, finally found a use for an expression. “Sir Leith,”
he said, “is this yours?”
“Yes, my lord. My son Pierce Oliver. His mother neglected to tell me. I’m
sure she had her reasons.”
The king studied Pierce, who bowed his head belatedly, not having a clue what
else he should do.
“That’s a kitchen uniform,” the king noted with interest. “What were you
doing there?”
“My mother taught me how to cook. Sir. My lord.” He gave up, flushing
deeply, but his father was nodding. “I found my way to the kitchen by
accident. I think.”
“Which doesn’t begin to explain—” The king left it there, shaking his
head. “We have an assembly to finish, a quest to consider. Welcome to my
court, Pierce Oliver. From what I understand Lord Skelton to say, you have
already begun the search for this ancient object of power, which may or may
not, depending on magus or mystes, be seen or possessed, and which may
resemble the sun or a stewpot. Join us at supper; you can explain then how you
found your way into my kitchen.”
He turned away. The knights began to drift toward their chairs. The seneschal
lingered, regarding Pierce with mystification.
“You can’t wear that at the king’s table,” he stated, then queried Leith
silently.
“He’ll stay with us,” Leith said, “of course.”
“I have clothes in my pack,” Pierce said.
“I doubt you brought much that would be suitable here.” He crooked a finger
with distaste, slid the pack strap from the back of Pierce’s chair. “You’ll
find this in Sir Leith’s rooms. Along with clothing more appropriate to your
status.”
He ended that with a curl of a question in his voice. Pierce considered the
matter blankly, having no idea either.
Mystes Ruxley called the Assembly to order again, and Pierce sat with his
father on one side of him, his brother on the other, and himself so full of
astonishment at his sudden wealth of breathing, shifting family surrounding
him that not a word from magus or mystes, knight or king penetrated.
Later, he sat clothed in finer and more formal textures of black, again
between his father and his brother, his eyes and throat powder-dry, his fork
making ineffectual movements over his plate, never quite touching what the
silent servers had placed upon it. The wyvern, the magus, and most of the
wyvern’s children filled the rest of the circular dais table. All of them,
even the king, assumed that Pierce’s path led back out of the palace door in
quest of some mythical whatnot made by the sun or the moon, he couldn’t
remember which or find a single reason under either why he should care.
The magus, Lord Skelton, was not helping any by picking things at random out
of Pierce’s head.
“‘All-You-Can-Eat Friday Nite Fish Fry’?” he said abruptly, staring at
Pierce, and putting conversation on hold around the table. “That’s where you
got your kitchen knife?”
Pierce felt Val’s silent tremble of laughter.
“What’s a fish fry?” the king asked Pierce with interest. “And why do you,
Lord Skelton, think that a knife has anything to do with finding Severen’s
sacred artifact?”
The magus, his foggy eyes enlarged and luminous behind his lenses, answered,
“It is part of an ancient ritual. He recognized that. Wherever it was.”
The wyvern’s eye caught at him then, transfixed him. “Where did you see the
ritual?”
“I didn’t—I—” he stammered, and felt his father’s light, reassuring
touch above his elbow. “My lord, it was at a bar and grill. In Chimera Bay. A
sort of diner. They served fish. All kinds of seafood.”
“Deep-fried in Severen’s pot, I’ll bet,” the king’s second son, Prince
Ingram, said irrepressibly. He shifted under the weight of the wyvern’s
regard. “Sorry, sir.”