“Papa?” He raised his voice almost to a scream. “Where are you? Wait for me!”
The trees were everywhere and the moonlight was so faint that he could hardly see the path. As he hurried around each bend in pursuit of his father’s ever-dwindling figure the roots seemed to writhe in the mud beneath his feet like moon-silvery snakes, grabbing at him and tripping him. Several times he stumbled and nearly fell, but forced himself on. The entire forest seemed to be twisting around him now, the trees spinning and drooping like exhausted dancers. He stopped to listen, but heard only the ghastly, breathless hoots from above.
“Papa! Where did you go? Come back!”
He thought he heard his father’s measured voice float back to him from somewhere far ahead, but he could not tell if he was saying “I’m here!” or “I fear . . . !”
But fathers were never afraid. They stayed with you. They protected you. They weren’t afraid themselves.
“Papa?”
The path was gone. He could feel the roots moving beneath his feet as the branches reached down to enfold him and smother the light.
“Papa? Don’t leave me!”
He was alone—abandoned and crying. He was just another orphan, a stray.
“Papa!”
No answer. Never an answer. He fought to get free, but the trees still clung.
It was the same every time . . .
? ? ?
Morgan, Prince of Erkynland and heir to the High Throne of Prester John’s empire, tumbled off his cot and onto the ground, fighting with the cloak that tangled him. Half lost in the dream-forest, he lay for long moments on the damp rugs, his heart thundering in his chest. At last he sat up, trying to make sense of where he was and what had happened. He was cold even with the blanket still clinging to his neck like a spurned lover, and something nearby was making a nasty, rasping noise. Morgan peered worriedly into the darkness, but after a moment realized the sound was only the snoring of his squire, Melkin.
Well, praise be to God that somebody can sleep.
Memory came slouching back. He was on the royal progress with his grandfather and grandmother. He and Melkin were in his tent in the middle of some field outside Hernysadharc, the capital, and it was cold because spring was still a fortnight away. Tonight there had been a meal and too much talk. Also too much wine, although now he was wishing he had drunk more of it—a great deal more, to chase the chill from his bones, the deep, feverish body-cold of another foul dream.
His eyes were wet, he realized, his cheeks damp. He’d been crying in his sleep.
Papa. I couldn’t catch up to him . . . There seemed to be a hole where his heart should be, as though the wind were blowing right through him. Angry, he wiped his face with his sleeve.
Weeping like a child. Idiot! Coward! What if someone saw me?
Wine was what he needed. Morgan knew from experience that a large cup of sour, reliable red would warm the cold hole in his vitals and push the dream out of his thoughts. But he had no wine. He had drunk all that had been offered while he dined with the king and queen, but it hadn’t been enough to give him a dreamless night.
For a moment he considered simply trying to go back to sleep. The wind was blowing chill outside, and the camp was full of people who would gladly scurry to his grandparents with the tale if they saw him out staggering around at this hour of the night. But the memory of that endless forest track, of the horror of never being able to catch up to his father, was too much.
Wine. Yes, it would be good to hear the foolish arguments of his friends, an ordinary, reassuring thing. And it would be even better to be drunk again, drunk enough this time that he would not hear the voices in the forest, would not feel the chill of being left behind, perhaps would not even dream.
Morgan dragged himself to his feet and pushed his way out of the tent in search of accommodating oblivion. He had a good idea of where to look.
No royal proclamation or official announcement of any kind designated the tent shared by the Nabbanai knights Sir Astrian and Sir Olveris as the home of the makeshift tavern. The presence of seasoned drinker Sir Porto and a reasonably constant supply of wine was enough.
The sprawling royal camp was dark, but a pair of lanterns made the tent seem nearly festive. Old Sir Porto stared down into his cup and nodded. “Bless us when we are weak, O Lord,” he said in his most doleful tones. “And save some blessings, if You please, because soon we will be weak again.” He took a long swallow, then wiped his damp mouth and scruffy white beard with the back of his hand. “That is the last,” he said. “God be kind, what I wouldn’t give for a little of that red stuff from Onestris they keep back at the Maid. A man’s vintage, that is. This . . . this grape water is scarcely old enough to know of the existence of sin.”
“One does not need to know about sin to enjoy it,” said Sir Astrian.
“Please, my lord,” said the young woman on Astrian’s lap. She was struggling hard to stand, but having no success. “I will be punished if I don’t get back to my work! Let me go.”
Astrian did not loosen his grip, and kept her on his knee with small adjustments of balance. “What?” he demanded. “Would you return to the shocking boredom of the ostler’s wagons?” He reached up and pulled at the girl’s bodice until her bosom threatened to overspill.
“My lord!” She snatched to hold up the fabric, and his hands, unchecked, strayed elsewhere.
The tent flap jiggled but did not open. Something good-sized was caught in it, and the poles of the tent swayed as though in a gale.
“The heir to all the lands of Osten Ard appears to be tangled,” said Sir Astrian. “Somebody set him free and be rewarded with a sizeable estate.”
“I will give you a sizeable boot in your arse,” said the voice whose owner was writhing in the flap like a butterfly trying to escape its cocoon. “As soon as I find you.”
“Someone go to our noble prince’s aid—make haste!” cried Astrian. “I would myself, but at the moment I am engaged in fierce battle.” He finally managed to pull down hard enough to overcome the young woman’s resistance and her bare breasts sprang into view. Instead of surrendering and trying to cover herself, though, the girl redoubled her efforts to escape, cursing and flailing.
“The bubs, the bubs!” sang Sir Astrian. “The bubs, the bubs, in all Nabban did ring! On the day they hanged our Redeemer, though no hands did pull the cord, The bubs in every tower tolled, to prove Aedon our lord!”
With help from dour, black-haired Sir Olveris, Prince Morgan finally emerged from the tent flap. Morgan’s hair, a shade too brown for golden, clung in strands across his face, damp with melting snowflakes. His brows, a shade darker and thicker than his hair, rose in slow, slightly distracted dismay as he saw the serving girl fighting to free herself. “God’s Eyes, Astrian, what are you doing? Let the poor girl go. And someone pour me a cup of something strong.” He looked around. “What? No succor for your lord? I call you traitors.”
“We have finished the last, Highness,” said Porto, guiltily wiping his upper lip. “The place is as dry as the dunes of Nascadu.”
“God curse it!” Morgan seemed genuinely upset. “Nothing to drown a night of foul dreams? Ah, well—distract me, then, Astrian. You owe me another game and I am ready to take my money back. And this time we are not using your dice, you cunning near-dwarf.”
“Cruel words,” said Astrian, grinning. The ostler’s maid was still trying to get off his lap and looked ready to weep. “I am not the tallest man in this kingdom, true, but I am not so low as you make me. My head reaches Olveris’s neck, and since there is nothing of much use above that point, he and I are as good as even.”
“Sweet Aedon!” Morgan lowered himself carefully onto a wooden stool, scowling ferociously. “Are you still mauling her? I said let the girl go, Astrian! If she doesn’t want to be here, let her be on her way.” He kicked at Astrian’s leg, then folded away his frown to show the young woman a smile made slightly less courtly by the extreme redness of his face. “He begs your pardon, lass.”
“Of course I do, my prince.” Astrian released his prey just as she was straining away from him, so that she would have fallen to the ground if Olveris had not caught her and held her up until she gained her balance. The tall knight said nothing, as was his wont, but rolled his eyes at Astrian as he returned to his own seat atop a wooden chest.
“My apologies for Sir Astrian,” Morgan said to the girl. “He is a rude fellow. And what is your name, my dear?”