Excerpts

THE REBEL PRINCE (Chapter One)1. Testenel Through doorways and down corridors Christine fled, her legs pumping with limitless strength. She lost herself in flight; the pounding of her soles on the floor annihilated all thought in her. People appeared in her field of vision, but most shrank from her path, and those who did not move out of the way immediately she eluded, even the guards in armor. Walls, doors, stairs danced about her, as if she were in fact unmoving and the world itself flowing past at random. Her mind felt broken and stuttering, unable to handle anything but the visceral need for flight. She saw a woman standing in her way, arms spread, unmoving. A sense of imminent collision thrummed in her body, like a trio of strings along her arms and down her torso. Christine veered left; her shoes, much too large for her feet, slipped on the flagstones, but she kept her footing and resumed her flight in another direction. Then, insanely, the woman was in front of her again, and this time there was nowhere to go, no option but to slow down, but Christine could not slow down, she must run away, flee the presence of the man from her nightmares, and the woman before her grew closer and closer, and Christine flung herself at the woman, as if she could burst through her with sheer desperation. They collided, yet there was no impact, no pain. All of Christine's impetus somehow drained away, until she was immobile, held tightly in the woman's arms. With the cessation of her flight, her attention could no longer drown itself in the pounding of her legs; she began to think once more, and as she did she screamed. The woman brought Christine's head into the hollow of her own shoulder; though she gave voice fully, Christine heard her screams dwindle to a muffled whine. She should have been thrashing in horror at this imprisonment; but these were a woman's arms that held her, and she had not been taught to fear a woman's touch. "Hush," said the woman, "hush, you are safe." Christine sobbed harshly, and felt her manic energy ebb at last. She pulled her head back, drew in a shuddering breath--the woman's gown bore a strange smell, a mix of odors floral and harsh--and tried to speak. "I-i-it's too much," she stammered, "it's j-just too much. I can't touch him; I can't. I remember all the things that happened even if they didn't. It's just too much." She sagged against her captor, felt the arms that enfolded her move up to her shoulders, felt a hand being run through her hair. No woman had touched her in affection in years, not since the day she'd gashed her knee and the school nurse had stroked her hair like this as she cried in terror at her blood. "You're safe, Christine," the woman repeated. Christine pulled her face away from the woman's body, looked through tear-blurred eyes at her face. It was terribly familiar. A straight nose, wide-spaced blue eyes, brown hair growing to the shoulders. She had seen this face before; recalled it in the sessions with Dr. Almand. Confused, disbelieving, still she felt her heart swell. "Are you...are you m-my mother?" she asked. "No," said the woman. "I am Melogian. You don't remember me, but--" Christine cut her off. "No. I do. I know your face. I saw it...when he made me remember." There had been so many sessions, so many rapes she had recalled, and so few glimpses of the woman who had borne her, who had tried to protect her, who had been murdered for it. And all of it lies, the vomitus of her undermind, that she had vowed to let go. "When I saw my mother in the sessions," Christine explained, "she had your face." She sobbed once. "Is she...alive?" she asked, knowing full well what the answer would be. Melogian looked at her with compassion. "I'm sorry, Christine. Your mother passed away giving birth to you. You never knew her. When you were a little girl I used to play with you sometimes; that must be why she had my face in your memories." Christine rested her head against Melogian's shoulder, gritting her teeth and moaning. "I knew," she murmured. "I knew, because Quentin never said a word about her. I knew she was dead, I always knew, but I hoped it was a lie like the rest. Oh, God, Melogian, it's too much. I'm going to throw up. Make it stop, please." Melogian's arms moved against her. "There's a chair just over there. Sit down and put your head between your knees. You'll feel better." Christine's legs trembled. Melogian helped her to sit down. Christine bent her torso forward, until her head nestled between her knees. Sweat fell from her forehead in large drops onto the floor. Her breathing was ragged and she felt waves of heat and cold pass through her limbs. Melogian's hand remained on her shoulder, warm and soothing, and she focused on that touch, forgetting all else for blessed moments, until her breathing began to slow and she could feel a measure of calm diffusing through her. Still she kept her head down, gazing at the meaningless patterns within the blue tiles of the floor: here a white ball surrounded by a film of pale blue, like a star aborning in its caul of gases, there an asymmetrical monster with five legs and a nubbin of a head...So much simpler to dwell in these flat lands of fantasy than to face the heartache of the real world. In the moment of Christine's flight, Quentin felt himself finally overwhelmed by circumstance. He called out "Lady, Lady, wait!" but she was past hearing his words. Anywhere else, whether down in Errefern or on the lawns before Testenel itself, he would have run after her. But here he stood in the presence of the king, and the Hero's gaze left him transfixed like an insect stuck by a pin to a corkboard. He looked at Edisthen, slack-jawed, desperate to explain himself, unable to find a single word to say. To the king's right and left, courtiers had advanced: old Benegald, Baron Thorzin, a half-dozen people he did not know. One figure at the edge of his vision he recognized: Melogian the sorceress, Orion's apprentice, who had stood by her master on that well-remembered day the wizard had imbued Quentin with magic and sent him on his quest. A shocked silence still prevailed; Edisthen's words rang loud in the hush. "Protect her!" he ordered. At that command, Quentin recovered the use of his limbs and ran off after Christine. Behind him, he heard other feet pounding on the floor: Veraless and Melogian ran along, as well as the two guards who'd escorted him into the king's presence. Christine at first sprinted with such desperate energy Quentin was hard put to follow; then she slowed down and he was able to match her speed. He called out to her again and again, to no avail. She fled blindly, and risked collisions several times. Veraless bellowed, "Stand back! Stand back for the blood royal!" and bystanders shrank away from Christine's mad dash. Down a flight of stairs she pounded, almost losing her balance. Quentin had a horrified premonition of her fall, but she reached the bottom landing and set off once more at a run. "We have to stop her, she'll hurt herself," came a voice at his elbow: Melogian's. Quentin looked over his shoulder, saw that they had left Veraless panting far behind, and that three guards now followed, weapons sheathed and keeping a respectful distance. "What has come over her?" continued the sorceress. "Why is she so terrified?" "It is a long story," said Quentin. "Our journey back was dangerous." They came to a four-way intersection and Christine continued straight forward. Melogian veered left and shouted to Quentin: "Follow her; I'll catch her from the other side!" Quentin, though he would have said he still knew his way around Testenel, was now utterly lost. He grasped Melogian's meaning soon enough, when the corridor turned left, and left again. After the second turn, Melogian appeared, standing firm in Christine's path, at another intersection. Christine evaded her, darting to the left, back toward the first intersection. Quentin cursed as he followed. Melogian calmly spoke several syllables; as Quentin reached her, she vanished from sight. Turning to the left, Quentin saw Melogian reappear right in front of the fleeing girl, and this time Christine could neither turn nor stop before Melogian caught her in her arms. Quentin gasped at the thought of Christine bruised from the impact; he hurried over, sick with dread for the sorceress. But everything seemed all right; Melogian held the sobbing and wailing princess in her arms and stroked her hair. Quentin stood back as Melogian calmed Christine and finally got her to sit on a chair with her head between her knees, her breathing hoarse and ragged. Two guards had joined him; he waved them to remain where they were, and was mildly surprised to see them obey. The guard he'd threatened earlier had vanished; perhaps he had fled to avoid the whipping Quentin had promised.... But Quentin could not stand to wait where he stood any longer, and took a step forward. "Is she unhurt?" he whispered to Melogian, who nodded in reassurance, then motioned for him to approach. "She doesn't fear you, does she?" mouthed Melogian at his ear; Quentin shook his head emphatically. "Lady Christine," said Melogian softly. "Your friend is here, if you wish to see him." Christine unbent and looked up at him; her tear-streaked face was twisted with anguish. Quentin felt his heart swell in his chest and he had to contain himself not to rush to enfold her in his arms as Melogian had done. Protect her, the king had ordered--as if Quentin had ever needed any man's order to do this. "I'm sorry," she gasped. Quentin knelt at her side, as close as he dared, but careful not to risk touching her. He knew the fear that gripped her, knew himself to be an agent of it, despite his denial to Melogian; for he was male, and thus to her an emblem of danger scarcely less potent than her own father. "Do not worry, milady. I am here by your side; I will...I will help you," he prattled. "You must not be afraid." In response, Christine screwed up her face and buried it in her hands. Her shoulders shook, but she remained silent, and after a moment she seemed to grow slightly calmer. Huffing and puffing, Veraless had reached them. He stood by the lone remaining guard--the other one had left--with his hat in one hand, wiping his forehead with the other and chewing his lip. A trio of onlookers was gawping at the scene; noticing their presence, Veraless shooed them away and ordered the guard to keep all others at bay. Quentin rose to his feet and went to speak with Veraless. "I owe you an apology, boy," the skyship captain murmured. "I was wrong. But I'm glad beyond words to have been wrong." "I need no apologies from you, sir," said Quentin. "Thank you for being here for the lady's sake." "The guard's gone to inform His Majesty. He'll be here directly." Quentin shook his head, alarmed. "Captain...the king must not come. The Lady Christine is made distraught by his presence." "But why? What's wrong with her that she should fear her own father?" "She has suffered too many emotions," evaded Quentin. "Remember, she barely knows him. Most of her life was spent in a made world; and only a few days ago I took her from all she had ever known and brought her through Errefern and into the true realm. In a way, she has been in shock throughout our journey. Her father's presence is too much for her to bear at this moment. Please, Captain, he must not come; or she will flee again." Veraless yielded. "Of course; His Majesty wouldn't want to cause her distress. I'll go repeat your words to him." At that moment Christine took her head from her hands and gazed about her. The sight of her tear-stained face brought Quentin to her side as if it had been a summons. Veraless came on his heels; Quentin could not for the moment find the words to warn the man away without further alarming Christine. Yet she did not appear afraid as Veraless knelt before her. "Milady," said the captain. "My Lady Christine, you are well?" Christine's heart gave a little jump of fright when Veraless knelt by her side. But then his voice rose, ever so gentle, asking her if she was well, and she knew that now he believed. The title he extended her might have been courtesy, and he might simply have knelt because she was sitting on a low chair. But the expression on his face, mixing concern with a wild, almost terrible joy, could not be mistaken. His belief warmed her and gave her strength to answer. "I'm...I'm better now." She exhaled raggedly. "I'm still very frazzled, though." "Frazzled, milady?" Veraless appeared disconcerted by the word. "She means 'overwrought,'" offered Quentin. "A made world dialect." "Where am I?" asked Christine. She had been looking around her, found that she was sitting in a chair at the edge of a corridor hung with tapestries and thickly carpeted; a window in the opposite wall admitted some light--the blue she saw through it was not the blue of the sky, but of Testenel's stone. Melogian answered: "In the corridor leading from the Triune Fountains to the Demmerel Chambers. You led us a merry chase for ten minutes, and I believe you'd still be running if I hadn't caught you." "I'm sorry," muttered Christine, looking down at her hands. "I was so scared...I lost my mind." There were a few seconds of silence, broken by Captain Veraless. "Milady," he said, "I'll be going to inform your father that you're well, but that you require rest. Melogian, surely there's a room somewhere close by that she could use?" "Of course. Christine, do you wish us to take you to a room where you can rest?" The way the invitation was worded reminded Christine of Dr. Almand's smooth manner, his unctuous kindness and what it had led to. She felt a pang of unreasoned fear: What had his legacy wrought in her? She tried to fight against it. "It's not right," she said. "Quentin, I should go meet my father. Otherwise, it'll mean Dr. Almand won. I have to go see him, now." But she shivered as she said this. "That would not be wise," objected Quentin. "Take time to rest, Lady Christine. His Majesty waited thirteen years for you, he can wait a few more hours." She met his gaze, dropped hers after an instant. "I'm so very tired," she admitted. "I guess I need to rest for a while. Maybe sleep. What time...?" She glanced at her left wrist automatically, saw it emerge bare from under the rough sleeve of the dark-red blouse; remembered that all she knew had been left behind forever, within the dream of the made world. She had lost count, sometime during their flight, of how many days had elapsed by her watch. Had it been five days, or six? She guessed, vaguely, that it might be the dark of the night according to the timepiece that had never existed. She surrendered. "Yes, I suppose I should sleep...." Melogian helped her up; Veraless bowed and took his leave. Flanked by Melogian and Quentin, Christine walked along the length of the corridor she had fled through nearly blind. Melogian opened the third door they reached; it gave onto a suite of two luxuriously appointed rooms, an antechamber and a bedroom, the latter dominated by a four-poster covered with a purple-and-gold quilt. The rooms were impeccably kept but felt disused, as impersonally immaculate as hotel rooms aimed to be. In the bedroom, Quentin drew heavy curtains from the narrow ogival window, letting bright light in. Christine noticed him surveying the view from the window--a receding perspective of blue stone walls, like a chaos of towers--and realized he was still checking for vulnerabilities. "Is there some danger, Quentin?" she asked in a small voice. He turned to face her, looking almost guilty. "No, milady. No danger. The whole of Testenel surrounds you. You will be safe from now on, I promise you. I merely take precautions out of habit." "It's a wise thing to be cautious," said Melogian. "I will protect you as well." So saying, she spoke three words and gestured oddly, as if stretching something flexible and throwing it into the center of the room, then brushing a finger down Christine's forehead. "There; the web in this room has been tautened and bound to you. Even while I am away from here, it will be as if I watched over you in person." "What was that?" Christine asked. "A spell, milady. I've tied the watch-web to your person." "You're a magician?" "Yes," said Melogian in a tone that implied the fact should have been obvious. "I am." "The Lady Melogian is Orion's apprentice, Lady Christine," explained Quentin. "She is a sorceress of the highest skill, second only to him." "I do what I can," Melogian amended with an air of mild self-deprecation. Christine found herself unwilling to believe her. All her life she had known wizards were frauds, exploiters of the gullible. Even in a world where magic worked, she could not put her faith in someone who claimed to control supernatural forces. Quentin's powers she could accept because they did not come from him. But for this woman to claim she could work miracles by waving her hands about...Somehow real magic should be different, a drawn-out affair that exhausted the will and demanded arcane reagents and dangerous rituals. And yet Quentin trusted and believed Melogian, and Christine had known safety in the woman's arms. She was overreacting; her fears had loosened from their source and now fastened upon anything and everything. She had to remember Tap's words: hope and trust, trust and hope. Captain Veraless came in at this point, hat in hands. He spoke in a formal tone: "Milady Christine, I've spoken with the king your father. He expresses his concern for your well-being and desires you should rest and be given anything you require." He paused. Christine realized he expected a reply and she stammered: "That's...that's very kind of him. I, er, I don't need anything right now. Just rest." "As you wish." Veraless bowed, then turned to Quentin: "Lad, the king summons you to him at your earliest convenience, in the Griffin Room." He then turned back to Christine. "Milady, I'd be honored to be the one to guard your rest. Will you allow it?" Christine answered almost unthinkingly: "Well...of course, if you want." She was surprised to see a radiant smile blossom on the captain's scarred countenance. "I'll stay at the outer door of the suite," he said, and withdrew. "You look exhausted, Christine," Melogian said. "We'll let you sleep, now." There were several fat candles in the room. Melogian went to them and touched their wicks with a finger; flame bloomed at once. This casual miracle performed, she drew the curtains shut again and made to leave, drawing Quentin after her; Christine felt a lump in her throat. She did not know if she could stand this. From the first moment of her flight with Quentin until her attack of panic, the knight had remained by her side, sometimes on the other side of a door, but always close by. Now he had been summoned by her father the king; how long until he should come back to her? Her panic breathed a warning to her, that she would never see Quentin again. He stood on the threshold of the inner doorway, looking despondent. For a moment she thought to beg him to remain with her, to sleep in the room, his back against the door, to keep her safe still and always. She fought her panic down, using not only reason but shame. She would not be drawn into a replay of the scene at the inn. Anything but that. And she was in no danger. Not here, where Quentin had sworn to take her. If he said she was safe here, then safe she was. She must trust him, and grant him time to pursue his own affairs. Still, she could not deny her need wholly. "Quentin," she asked, "will you be here when I wake?" He smiled at her then, and she sensed that he too wished them to remain together. "Have no fear, milady, I will come at your call. So will the Lady Melogian." The sorceress nodded. "There will be people about to take messages to me or Quentin. Just ask for us. We'll come. And if there were some emergency--which there will not be--I would know and come before you could think to call out." Christine nodded. "All--all right." And Quentin astonished her, bursting out: "Do you want me to stay with you, Lady?" He blushed as he said this. She felt herself redden too, but had the strength to answer. "Thank you, Quentin," she said. "I know I'll be safe here. When I wake up...When I'm up I'll call for you." He lowered his gaze, turned to leave on Melogian's heels. The outer door closed behind him, and then Christine was alone. She looked about her, remembering that this was not her appointed suite, just a pair of rooms that had been available. And yet they were decorated with such richness they might have belonged to a sultan's daughter. She smacked her palm against the bedpost. It was solid; her hand stung from the force of the blow. This was real, no matter how much like some fantasy of power and wealth it was. The quilt's fabric was real, smooth and warm; if she peered closely at it she could count the stitches. She had had, a few times, complex dreams in which she dreamed that she awoke, yet was still trapped within sleep; but the world of her false awakenings was never as solid as this. She was awake now; she couldn't have been dreaming her entire flight with Quentin, not days and days on end. If she felt the familiar sense of unreality creeping in, it was because she was dead tired, because she was already falling asleep.... She sat down on the bed, but her heart kept pounding. She grew aware that she was afraid to go to sleep. Afraid not so much that she would wake up in her room in Uncle's house, afraid rather that she would never wake at all. Sleep is the punctuation of life, putting parentheses and dashes around and within days; sometimes we cannot make ourselves forget it is also the final period. Christine rose, then padded across the antechamber to the outer door and pulled it open. Captain Veraless was standing on the other side and turned to her immediately. "Captain," she said, timidly, "I think I would prefer it if you stayed in the suite while I sleep. I would feel safer." And more real. Veraless appeared astonished for a second or two, then embarrassed. Finally he bowed and followed her inside. "Ah...Please take a seat," she said, waving at the three chairs in the antechamber. "Can you sit...just outside the room? Where I can see you? I need to know you're close by." "Of course, as my lady wishes." Veraless brought a chair right by the doorway. "Please go in, Lady Christine. When you're ready, I'll reopen the door." He closed the door behind Christine. She was too exhausted to think of undressing; she stepped out of her shoes--the woolen carpet felt soft and thick under her bare soles--pulled back the quilt and crawled under the covers. "All right," she said to the door, which Captain Veraless opened. "Do you want me to extinguish the candles, Lady Christine?" he asked her. "No; please no. I'd rather have some light." As she said this, it occurred to Christine with a touch of horror that this would be the only source of light in Chrysanthe once the sun set. She forced out the next words. "Good...good night, captain." "Sleep well, milady." Veraless sat ramrod stiff into the chair. Christine turned her head away, toward the window. Chinks of light came through the curtains, making meaningless patterns of bright dots. She swung her head back, saw by the glow of candle flames the form of Veraless sitting quietly in the chair, his gaze on her. This should have made her afraid, perhaps. Yet it did not. She was safe here, as safe as she could ever be. And though fear still gripped her at the thought of surrendering her consciousness, she allowed oblivion to claim her. Once Veraless had shut the door to the suite, Quentin heaved a sigh; he felt a sudden flagging of the energy that had sustained him up to now. He stood staring at the door, unwilling to move away and thus set in motion what had to come next. Veraless had settled himself by the door and looked at Quentin with a frown. "You don't seem to be able to bear being parted from her ladyship," he said, though not unkindly. "She is in my charge, Captain; I mean, she was in my charge, all through our journey. No offense intended, sir, but I feel like...like I am betraying her by leaving her side. I feel that my duty is not done." "A good soldier's duty is never done. But now you've been summoned by the king, boy. Go; I'll keep watch here." "Quentin." Melogian had taken his arm. "You know Captain Veraless can be trusted; and the spell-skein threaded throughout Testenel holds her snug. You mustn't fear for her; she couldn't be more safe." Under other circumstances the pull of duty would have impelled Quentin to the king's side without question. But now, it was with painful reluctance that he tore himself away from the threshold. Yet leave he did; Melogian drew him onward along the corridor. At a turning stood a guard who had kept half a dozen people from going any farther in. "Lady Melogian!" called a tall bearded courtier. "Lady! What has happened? Who was the girl?" "It was the lost princess!" shouted a blond woman. "His Majesty said it! The warrior's the one who brought her back!" "Is it true, Melogian?" asked the courtier. "Tell us!" "She's like her portrait! It was her!" This came from a servant boy of twelve or thirteen who held his ground amongst the onlookers as if his status matched theirs. Melogian put her hands out to quell the others' voices. "Please be silent. I...I have no announcement to make. Let us pass." The courtier insisted. "Is or is there not a young woman in one of the Demmerel Chambers?" "That does not concern you, sir." "Why are we prevented from going to see her? And why did Captain Veraless cry 'Make way for the royal blood'?" Melogian's composure faltered. "That...that's his affair. Let us pass!" As Melogian and Quentin made their way through the small crowd, the courtier grabbed ahold of Quentin's arm. "You, young man! Say something! Who are you?" The knight opened his mouth but nothing came out. "Leave him be!" said Melogian, pulling Quentin along. She darted him a warning look he did not truly need. "If it's the king's lost daughter, why keep it a secret, Lady?" cried the woman. "I'm not keeping it a secret!" retorted an exasperated Melogian. "Now let us go!" "She's admitted it!" said an old man in a mason's overcoat. "It is the princess!" The shouting redoubled; the bearded courtier tried to bluster past the guard, who rapped his toes, perhaps accidentally, with the butt of his spear. As the courtier hopped on one foot yelping, the servant boy ran off yelling excitedly and the blond woman started berating the guard as a mother would her errant child. Melogian dragged Quentin away at speed down the corridor, through a door into a short, low-ceilinged hall furnished with parallel rows of chests whose cushioned lids doubled as benches. She shut the door behind them and leaned against it. "I feel," said the sorceress, "that I did not handle that at all well." Rather than state the obvious, Quentin looked at the floor, and suddenly sat down, feeling a wave of dizziness pass through him. "Do not worry, Lady Melogian," he said, barely thinking upon his words. "Surely things are not as bad as you fear." Melogian surprised him by chuckling. "That was so insincere I should feel insulted.... Bah; I doubt even if I had said nothing that it would have made much of a change. How long could we expect to keep this quiet? In fact, it's a wonder so few people have yet been alerted. There are days when Testenel is a hive of bees; tonight it is sleepy. I guess we should feel grateful." Quentin had been looking at her; she held his gaze and hers sharpened. "Quentin...Now, I remember you. I began to recall your face when we were in the Demmerel room. How long has it been?" "Since we met? I took my vows in 'eighty-five." "You searched for her for nine years.... Where was it you went?" "Into Errefern." His throat was tight. He recalled his passage through the hedge; how innocent he had been, full of the fire of life, immune to doubt. He stood up, unwilling to sit while Melogian stood. "I have been at fault," said the sorceress. "I put your memory away. You and all those other knights, going off into infinity...I didn't allow myself to think about you more than once a season. If Edisthen had asked me to say how much time had passed since I had last seen that knight with eyes like an Estephorin winter, I wouldn't have known what to say. Fifty years or five..." She took a step toward him; put her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately. Her whole body pressed against him; her lips mashed his, and Quentin felt an electric thrill running down his spine. She let him go an instant later. Quentin gaped at her, bewildered. Her face was split by a wide grin. "Let it be said I was the first one to officially congratulate you on accomplishing the impossible, Quentin. God, but it's only now sinking in. You've done it! You have in truth done it!" She was laughing now, her eyes sparkling. "You brought her back, Quentin! The entire realm will honor your name! They will make statues of you, paint you on frescoes! If Paucelin were still alive, I'd place an order for a monument!" Quentin protested: "No, please, Lady. No! I want none of that. You must be joking...." "Joking? Joking! What did you think would happen if you succeeded? A tea party on the lawns of the Royal Gardens?" "I...I hoped for..." Quentin was at a loss. His success had never been more than a bright dream, a few disjointed ideas. He'd imagined the king clasping his hand, some applause, and yes, perhaps a meal eaten in splendid circumstances. He suddenly understood that his quest had not simply borne fruit: it had changed his life utterly. He was and would remain famous--he would be remembered. He did not know whether to be thrilled or horrified. "I just wanted to bring the Lady Christine back home," he said. "And modest too!" Melogian exclaimed. "The very embodiment of chivalrous ideal. You are quite disgusting, Sir Quentin." She kissed him again, on the lips, so briefly and innocently that it seemed to apologize for her earlier effusion. "We shouldn't tarry," she said in a husky voice. "We're keeping you from His Majesty, and he deserves to at least hear the full story from your mouth." They exited the hallway through the far door; Melogian led the way along a deserted warren of short corridors until it gave onto a flight of much-traveled spiral stairs Quentin thought to recognize. They climbed a flight, Melogian looking straight ahead whenever their path crossed someone else's, and reached a landing where stood a guarded door. The soldier let them pass; behind the door he warded lay a passage guarded by three more soldiers, and beyond them an old door, of ancient stone and wood, crudely carved into the shape of an animal half eagle, half lion. Melogian pushed it open; and finally they stood in the presence of the king. Edisthen was alone in the room, sitting with his hands in his lap. A low table stood to his left, covered with piles of books and some folded maps. Other seats were scattered here and there in comfortable disarray. There were no windows in this chamber; a multitude of candles cast a flickering illumination upon the walls, which were paneled in dark wood. It was as if the Griffin Room belonged to another castle entirely, from an older and sadder age. Quentin had forgotten a good part of the protocol he had memorized a decade before, and in his travels he had had to learn so many imaginary customs that for a moment he did not know whether he should abase himself on his belly, cast a pinch of cinders over his shoulder, or hide his face and moan. Then common sense reasserted itself, and he knelt and bowed his head. There was silence in the room; then Quentin heard Edisthen stand up and approach him. "Rise," came the Hero's dry voice, and Quentin rose to his feet. "You are Sir Quentin," Edisthen said to him. "Born twenty-six years ago in Lydiss, knighted on the tenth of Ripening, 6085. A week later, Orion bestowed the Quester's Gifts upon you and you left court to seek for my daughter. Your stated goal was to journey into Errefern. I presume this is what you did?" Quentin's words came out hoarse. "Yes, Sire." "I want you to tell me what occurred. Please be seated." Edisthen returned to the armchair where he had awaited them; Melogian, apparently unnoticed, took a seat to his right. With trembling arms, Quentin brought a chair to face the king and sank down in it. Edisthen tilted his head slightly to one side. His long gaunt face showed no expression. "If it please Your Majesty," began Quentin. "I shall skip over the early years of my journey. Nothing good came of them." With a twist of pain, he remembered a small warm hand in his, a hand suddenly gone as its owner tried to pass into the real world. No, he definitely did not deserve statues raised to his glory. His mind veered away from those memories, refocused on the recent past. He spoke on. "I had been following Orion's advice all this while, not seeking for the Lady Christine herself, but for the idea of her. By early 'ninety-three--as near as I could tell--I had gone very deep in the made world, almost too deep. But I found...it is hard to put it into words. Like an eddy in a raging stream. A quieter spot, strange to me but not so strange. I thought...I remember thinking to myself it would make for a good hiding place. And so I went farther in." "Continue," whispered Edisthen when Quentin paused. "After a while, I began to think the made world felt...more real than it should have. It could have been imagination. But Orion did say an exile from the true realm living for a long time in a made world would eventually cast a--a glow of some sort. A sheen over the dream." Quentin noticed Melogian nodding vigorously at these words. She appeared to want to say something, but visibly held her tongue. He went on. "So I traveled more cautiously. The world was very large by then; I kept to the area where people spoke our tongue. I doubted the Lady Christine's abductors would have chosen to travel to a place where they could not be understood. It took me about six months to circumscribe a perimeter: from Amarga down to Amerille, not far from the eastern ocean. Some days I was afraid I was chasing phantoms.... But in the end--well, I did find the Lady Christine." "And where was she?" "She was living in a huge city--though not so large by the standards of that world. Attending a lyceum." "She wasn't a prisoner?" "Not as such, Sire. Though--" "What?" "She did have a guardian. A wizard. When we escaped, he cast spells after us. He was trying to force me to abandon my mount." "You are leaving much out." "I beg your pardon, Your Majesty. My thoughts are scattered." "Try again." Edisthen's tone was almost flat, but Quentin felt sweat spring on his brow and his throat tightened. "I first glimpsed the Lady Christine as I rode my mount close to the lyceum she attended. Having finally located her, I spent several weeks learning her exact situation, as inconspicuously as I could manage. She was not, as I have said, a prisoner. She was not even guarded; there was no hint that anyone kept an eye on her when she was outside of the house where she lived." "What about spells?" Melogian burst in. "There should have been spells laid on her." "You are interrupting, Melogian," said Edisthen. "But do answer the question, Sir Quentin." "No spells, Your Majesty. I did expect watch-magic of some sort, but I could feel none. I thought perhaps Orion's bequeathed abilities were not sensitive enough. It turned out there was no magic in that world, no wizards except in books and theaters. Some charlatans claimed powers, but their miracles were too shabby to be believable. After a time, I began to think that there was no magic on her because there was no one to cast any. And it did make sense. I had hunted, at first, for a captive princess. And early on I had found...someone whom I had thought was Christine. It was a mistake. And I think I learned from that mistake--learned not to seek what I expected to find. I have come to believe that the Lady Christine's abductors left her there precisely because she was not imprisoned, because she did not dwell in a castle guarded by demons.... The way one hides a treasure by burying it in an ordinary spot where no one would think of digging." Edisthen prompted him: "You say there were no spells on her; yet there was a wizard." "I did not know he was a wizard, Your Majesty. The Lady Christine lived with her uncle. I learned what I could about him: He was a high-ranking merchant, mildly powerful in his guild. But there was little else. I suspected he was more than he seemed, but I had no clear indication. I eventually made contact with her, at a time when he was absent." Quentin drew in a breath. "There were...complications. The Lady Christine did not believe me. I confess I had not counted on this. I did not force the issue; I told her I would wait until she changed her mind." Edisthen frowned. "You did not return here to inform us?" "I...I would have, Sire, after a while. But I feared she might panic and speak to her guardian. What if he should possess the ability to take her beyond? I resolved to wait some time, to see what happened. I would not allow her to slip from my notice and become lost again. And in fact, it was two days later that she summoned me to her." Quentin looked at his hands, to avoid gazing at his king's face. "I had told her I would be waiting to take her away, back to her rightful home. When I felt her call, at first I was not certain I did. I am not a sorcerer, and the seeking-spell was slow to convey meaning. Once I grew certain, I prepared myself as best I could and I drove--rode--to her house. I had Thunder give voice...I could feel something through the spell, something fierce and burning. Her spirit was crying for escape. I could have rushed in with my sword drawn. But I remembered how it had gone with--with the other, and I waited. "And she came out of the house; she saw me--she expected me, she knew I would be there. She ran to the car--to my mount, I mean. I had shifted its shape as Orion had taught me: It was a metal vehicle I rode. "I urged her inside; as soon as she had climbed aboard, I goaded Thunder to flee. Her guardian had come out after her. And when we sped away, he cast a spell to blind us. He thought that from within the vehicle, I could not see where we went once the windows had gone black. But I could still see beyond, and I used that sight to navigate the streets until I could repair Thunder's vision." Quentin shifted in his seat and met Edisthen's gaze once more. "After that, Sire, we traveled for days. We were...pursued, at the beginning. We evaded this pursuit, but the final attempt almost succeeded. Something possessed my mount: a kind of made-world were. Thunder started to shift into something monstrous. I was thrown out, but the Lady Christine remained inside. So I fought it, and killed it. The Lady was unharmed, but it was a frightening episode for her. We went on foot for a time, until I located a train--I mean a self-propelled carriage, running along a metal road--that followed the gradient out of Errefern. In the train, the Lady became very upset. I thought it was the consequence of all she had undergone, but it was something else...." Quentin paused. "What I have to say, Sire, is painful to hear." Edisthen's face showed no expression. "Speak." "You see, about seven years ago, the Lady Christine was taken to see a soul-healer. A man who specializes in treating illnesses of the mind. There were many such in that world. She was taken to him because she had had an imaginary companion, and this companion had behaved strangely, and she had confessed to this." Edisthen's nostrils flared. "Are you saying that my daughter is addled?" "No, no, Sire! Not at all! She simply had an imaginary friend, a talking animal named Tap, when she was a little girl. Many children indulge such fancies. It is not at all rare." But he cannot know, Quentin thought to himself, horrified, he cannot understand what that is like. What will he think of her? "So why was she taken to see a healer, if such a thing is normal?" Edisthen was asking. "Your Majesty, I believe it was not an imaginary friend. When the Lady was taken from us, did not Orion immediately send out benisons to protect her? I believe it was one of those spells that spoke to her, in the guise of a phantom companion." Edisthen turned to look inquiringly at Melogian, who said: "It didn't happen quite as you think, Quentin. But it's true Orion did send out magic to help Christine. I don't know exactly what spells he sent out after her; what you describe is conceivable. Magic will often surprise us in made worlds." "This does not answer my question," said Edisthen to Quentin. "Why was my daughter taken to see a healer?" "She said it was because she was judged too old to have an imaginary companion still, at the age of ten. And that healer, Your Majesty...He was not a competent one." Quentin's hands were ice. When he spoke next, his voice rasped and squeaked. "The Lady Christine explained to me that the healer became convinced that she had...that she had suffered at a very young age. That she had been, ah...I beg your leave, Sire...forced. And he, in turn, convinced her that she must have been mistreated." The king's face showed not a trace of expression. Quentin plodded onward. "The Lady told me she remembered...that she was made to remember...many occurrences of this sort. She explained that she rejects this now, that she no longer believes this happened. But those...those teachings...have made a deep impression. She believed in them for years. It is hard for her to simply forget. Your Majesty, there is one more thing. The instigator of these...this ill treatment, himself was directly responsible, in the healer's stories, for...I mean that she...she was taught her own father had forced her." The king's lips had grown bloodless and the corner of his mouth twitched. His eyes were the eyes of a corpse. Quentin felt himself wither under their gaze. "Continue," said Edisthen. "Your Majesty...!" Quentin protested. "Continue." Edisthen's dry voice demanded his obedience as would a torturer's lash. Quentin gathered his wits. "The train pulled us out of the depths of Errefern. I had to guide it the whole way, until it grew too shallow for me to sense the gradient. By the time we left the train we were maybe twenty leagues from Chrysanthe. We traveled the remaining distance on foot, over a few days. We encountered no more threats. We reached the exit from the made world, which as you know lies within the Hedges. It was our great good luck that Captain Veraless's Black Heart was flying in the vicinity. When we spotted it, I climbed a hedge to signal. The Black Heart took us aboard and made for Testenel. We reached the castle, and then we were taken into your presence." "And after my daughter fled?" "The Lady Melogian caught up to the Lady Christine and managed to soothe her. We...The Lady Christine is resting in one of the Demmerel Chambers. Captain Veraless is guarding her door personally. The Lady Melogian put the Lady Christine under the protection of her spells. I believe the Lady Christine is sleeping at present. The Lady Melogian and I returned here; there was some commotion in the corridors...I believe the rumor of Her Highness's return is spreading." Edisthen was silent a moment. Then he said: "You have done well, Quentin. The whole land is in your debt. Name whatever you desire as a reward, and it is yours." "Your Majesty...," breathed Quentin. Looking at Edisthen's countenance, he dared not make the least request. But neither could he throw Edisthen's gift back in his face. He thought for an endless second and found a way out. "Your Majesty, I beg time to think about it. I am exhausted and my wits are gone." "Granted. You may leave now. Please go to the chamberlain and request accommodations for yourself. Insist on proximity to the heart of Testenel; I do not wish you lodged in a garret in one of the outer towers." "As Your Majesty commands." Quentin rose to his feet, bowed to the king thrice as he walked backward, until he had reached the door. He turned away from Edisthen's dead gaze, pulled the door panel open as little as he dared, and squeezed himself through the opening, feeling as though he were escaping a nameless peril. The door to the Griffin Room shut. Melogian had been looking at Quentin's exit. Now she was forced to turn her gaze to the king. Edisthen had been nearly expressionless while Quentin told his tale; now his features twisted into a grimace as he returned her gaze. The king leaned back in his chair and took a ragged breath. He hid his face in his hands for a moment, then ran them, pressing hard, from his cheeks over his forehead and into his thin salt-and-pepper hair. Tears leaked from the corners of his lids. Melogian felt a shiver run down her spine, but it was more relief than anything else: She had feared Edisthen would keep such a hold on his emotions that it would fell him. "Do you have anything to add to this tale, Melogian?" the king asked in a broken voice. "Nothing, Your Majesty. Quentin's recounting is accurate from the time the Lady Christine came into the dining room." "I do not understand myself," said the king. "I should be happy. I should be dancing about the room. My daughter is returned to me. Why is it I only want to mourn?" Melogian waited a moment but Edisthen appeared to need a reply. "It is possible, Your Majesty, that it is anger you feel." "I cannot feel anger; there is nowhere for it to go. Whom can I punish? Whom can I kill?" "Your Majesty..." "Be silent." Edisthen was gazing down at his hands. He spoke on in a dry voice. "She was told that I raped her, my flesh and blood. She was told this at the age of ten. She has spent seven years believing this lie. The first words she said to me in thirteen years were 'I can't touch you.' Her accent is more outlandish than if she were an Estephorin fisherwoman. I lost my little daughter and a stranger has been returned in her place. A broken young woman who blames me for harming her..." "No, my liege. You're wrong. Quentin said she didn't believe this anymore. That she had rejected the lie. She came back to you, she chose to return to you, because she did not believe the lie anymore." "You seem sure of this." "I am sure of it. She wouldn't have chosen to come here otherwise." "But she cannot stand to be near me." "She has been ripped from a land she thought her home and brought to a vastly different place. She had not set eyes on you in a dozen years. What would you expect a young woman to do in such a situation? She panicked, as anyone would have. Give her time to regain her balance." Edisthen took several deep breaths, appeared to grow calmer. At length he spoke again. "If they had nicked her little finger, they would have lost everything. But they didn't harm her, did they? Still they managed to burn her soul to ashes, without incurring any consequences. Really, I'm compelled to admiration for Evered. This is revenge beyond what I could have imagined. And injustice beyond what anyone could accept." "'To look for justice within the world is to seek the Law where it is not,'" quoted Melogian, trying to soothe the king. Edisthen snarled at her in response, his head snapping forward. "Do not give me those words! Do you think I could ever forget a single verse of the Lesser Book? Then mock me not by quoting from it!" Melogian shrank back from his wrath. "Forgive me, my liege," she quailed. "I didn't mean to insult you!" Edisthen's anger faded as quickly as it had flared. He shook his head. "No, I should ask you to forgive me. I know you meant well. But don't offer me dead words, Melogian. Give me the benefit of your wisdom. Tell me how we can deal with this. What I can do to set matters right." Melogian thought for a moment, letting the painful pounding of her heart subside. At last she said, "As far as I can see, at present we are doing what we should be doing and all that we could be doing. The Lady Christine was not physically harmed, and against damage to the soul, time's a powerful remedy. She is overwhelmed by recent events. Her flight out of the made world was enough to shake anyone. But soon she'll be better. If we give her stability again, it will help her recover all the sooner. We must treat her well, make no demands upon her, accede to her wishes when possible." "And what will happen when Evered arranges to get rid of her once more?" Melogian shook her head. "You jest, Edisthen. Even forgetting the guards and the magic that protect her, how could Evered think of having her abducted again? She is no four-year-old anymore, to follow strangers out of safety." "I meant assassination," said Edisthen. "What if Vaurd's get decide to murder her?" Melogian made a noise of incredulity in her throat. "Your Majesty, they want the throne, not their own destruction." "The younger ones, yes. But not Evered. I remember the day I came to Testenel.... Once Vaurd was dead, Evered screamed like a darrow let loose from Hell. If Duke Edric had not physically restrained him, he would have thrown himself upon me. The years may have given him better control of his hatred, but...he lives only to see me destroyed. What if he should cease caring about the consequences of a direct attack? What can hold him back?" "His brothers will rein him in. Casimir will. They won't invite destruction on themselves for his sake. And you can't expect Evered to appear uninvited in Testenel with a drawn sword." Edisthen looked down at his knees. "No doubt you're right," he said. "But I cannot afford to disregard the possibility." "Of course not, Your Majesty. That is why we have men and spells shielding your daughter as well as yourself. If I can think of any additional protection we could employ, I will inform you of it." "Enough. You're reassuring me as if I were a tiny child or an old man in his dotage. I don't need this much coddling." There was a moment of silence; then Melogian said: "Very well, Your Majesty; let us talk of something disquieting then. There is one thing I have thought of that has been bothering me. Has it occurred to you Christine may have been deliberately let go? That Evered's agents might have allowed Quentin to find her, to bring her back? So that you would see what had been done to her and suffer?" The king cawed laughter, once. "No, milady," he said, "no, that I will not credit. If we start double-and triple-thinking, there will be no way out of the trap. That way madness lies. There must be a limit to the depths of plots. Vaurd's sons abducted my daughter and tried to trap her into exile to cut short my lineage. Not even Evered is twisted enough to deliberately allow their prize to go free. They would never let the heir to the throne back into the real world if they could avoid it, no matter how painful it might be for me to see her. This is not some plot of theirs; that young knight really did find and rescue my daughter through his own valor. And it is for this reason I fear Evered may become enraged enough to seriously contemplate regicide." Melogian shrugged. "As I've said: A thousand soldiers surround us; my magic shields you and your daughter; the Law itself protects you both. And no matter how maddened he is, Evered knows as well as you do that he cannot restore his line by murdering yours. Even if you were assassinated--God forbid--you would be replaced. The throne of Chrysanthe may not remain unfilled." Edisthen twisted his mouth sadly. "Be careful what you say. 'The Law does not come to our bidding like a dog running to its master,'" he quoted. "I don't understand what you mean." "History is clear enough in the matter of Heroes. In the early days of the world we thronged the land; now there are only myself and Orion, and he is lost among the made worlds. If my offspring and I were killed, Melogian, how can you expect a new king would arise instantly? How much time might pass before another Hero appeared to sit upon the throne, assuming God were to send one again rather than wait for Men to settle affairs by themselves? The throne may not remain forever empty, but how long is an instant in the eyes of God?" Melogian found no answer. Edisthen continued: "If I'd had any way of knowing that the people would not have to wait years, I might have acted a long while ago. I have often thought, and very seriously, Melogian...ever since Christine was abducted in fact...of being the one to strike and end it all. Being the weapon instead of the target." "Destroy Vaurd's sons?" asked Melogian, incredulous. "Not all four; just Evered. But him, why not? If I had been replaced immediately, there would have been no harm to the land.... As long as it was a clean assassination, not another war to spread blood on the earth, I might have done it. Many times, when I was convinced Christine was lost forever, I came close to ordering it. But then Orion would argue with me, dissuade me, convince me to wait a while longer.... He never said it in so many words, but it was clear he would refuse to involve himself in it. That was the main stumbling block; without his magic, no assassin could stand a chance. Now that Christine is back, I might risk going to Vorlok alone, shielded by the Law; but Orion is gone. Without his support, I am helpless.... Your pardon, Lady Melogian. I'm belittling you." "I take no offense," she said, looking down at her lap. "You are quite correct. I cannot match my mentor's strength; but allow me to say, my liege, that I'm glad this gives you a reason for staying your hand. The land needs you; your daughter needs you; don't throw away your life merely to rid us of Vaurd's mad son!" Edisthen grunted. "In this you are the equal of Orion: You argue with the same words.... I feel as if I were in the wrong story." He sighed, slumping in his chair. "As Heroes go, I often think I am a very poor one." "You are as you were written, my liege, the true king of Chrysanthe. And your long-lost daughter is back amongst us. Remember that." Edisthen rose to his feet, in one effortless motion. He clasped his hands and ground them together. "My daughter is back amongst us and cannot bear to touch me," he whispered. Melogian rose to her feet in turn and took the king's arm, careless of decorum as always. "She will heal. What has been done to her is not irreversible, I'm convinced of it. Time will cure her. Now smile, my king, smile and go put on your robes of state. Let your people see you joyous; tonight you must announce the return of the princess." King Edisthen nodded, broke loose of Melogian's hold, and went to his apartments without further words. The enchantress was left alone in the room and for a moment she shivered. This was what Edisthen feared, she thought: to find himself alone, all those he loved vanishing one by one. For years she had thought she might well be the next one to be torn from the king's side. First his daughter, then his court mage. She had replaced Orion at Edisthen's side, and although her talent was no match for his, she was one of the very few powerful mages in Chrysanthe. It made perfect sense to remove her from court--yet no attacks against her had ever come. Were the king's enemies content with the state of things? Or were they waiting, with enormous patience, for ancient plots to bear fruit? Knowledge was what she lacked; and because of the Law and Edisthen's indulgence she was not able to act. How simple it was in the made worlds, where enemies could be escaped by a footstep beyond or obliterated by a wave of caustic force. But the Law protected Vaurd's sons no less than it did Edisthen. And they were too far away in any case: Edisthen had let them settle in Vorlok, an ancient baronial castle belonging to Vaurd's line, over a hundred and fifty leagues away. Early on, it had been possible to spy on them despite the distance, through spells. But Casimir had unraveled those long ago, then protected Vorlok by talismans and blind-sinks. Given enough time, her master Orion could have pierced through those protections; but she lacked the requisite mastery. All she could do was to sit in the heart of Testenel, aching with the desire to hold Evered, Innalan, Olf, and Aghaid in the vise of her power and squeeze until their bodies burst like overripe fruit; knowing she was merely entertaining childish revenge fantasies, knowing herself as powerless as an untalented waif, all her knowledge and will good for naught. Melogian swept out of the Griffin Room, returned to the suite where Christine slept. The guard placed at the entrance informed her Captain Veraless was watching over the princess in her room. Melogian opened the door nevertheless. Veraless appeared at the entrance immediately, putting an angry face at the opening; he relaxed the instant he recognized her. "What is it?" he whispered. "She's sleeping?" "Yes, but she's agitated." Veraless drew back, let Melogian enter. The door to the inner room was open. On the bed Christine lay on her back, fretting in her sleep, muttering indistinct syllables. Her features were drawn, her head jerking from side to side as if she were receiving imaginary blows. After a moment she turned onto her side and relaxed somewhat, her breath loud through her half-open mouth. Melogian recalled the little girl this young woman had been, remembered sitting Christine on her knee and pouring illusions from her hands onto the child's lap like a cascade of roses, to make her laugh and squeal in pleasure. She found her eyes were burning. She muttered a good-bye to Veraless, who sat down again in his chair to watch the sleeping princess. Melogian left the antechamber on silent feet, blinking hard to ease the pain: For her, there were no more tears to be shed. It was apt that she should come upon Quentin next; as she crossed a gallery on her way back to her apartments, she saw the young knight stretched out on a bench against a wall. His head lay back, his arm had fallen over the edge until his knuckles brushed the floor; he was so pale and drawn that for a moment he appeared dead to her, then she saw his chest rise powerfully, drawing in air. She went up to him and crouched at his side. "Quentin? Quentin..." He did not react, nor when she shook his shoulder gently. From his accounting of his travels with Christine it seemed he had taken almost no rest during their flight back to the real world. He must not have had the time to find the chamberlain before exhaustion overtook him. Melogian stroked his hair, the line of his jaw, roughened by a nascent beard. Then she kissed his forehead and whispered, "Sleep well, brave knight." As she stood up, ghosts of blue roses bloomed in the air, to swim and circle about Quentin. He could not have been aware of them; but whether because he had sensed her kiss or because he knew in his bones that his long task had ended in success, he smiled then. He looked to her like an etching in a book, a picture of the Hero Gildencaulde who, it was said, had not died but still lay sleeping deep within the ground, kept young by enchanted dreams. Melogian smiled at Quentin and heaved a sigh she herself could not quite interpret. THE REBEL PRINCE Copyright 2012 by Yves Meynard Excerpted from The Rebel Prince: Chrysanthe Vol. 2 by Yves Meynard All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.