also that Ambrosia's accuser had been the Protector himself, and a mutter of awe ran through the crowd at the little King's bravery.
“Yes,” said the black knight distinctly.
Silence fell.
The King sensed that something dangerous was in the air, but didn't yet know what it was. Then he turned and saw the Protector clenching his fists, his eyes as red as blood. The King's breath suddenly went out of him as he began to understand. But it was no longer his turn to speak; it was Morlock's, and he was taking intolerably long about it.
“Sire,” Morlock said finally, “I ask that the Protector of the Imperial Crown, one Lord Urdhven,” and he paused again, continuing, “I ask that he return the body of his champion to its blood-kin , who do not seem to be known in the city, so that they may dispose of it with their accustomed rites. ”
There was a puzzled silence, in which the King sensed rather than saw Lord Urdhven relax beside him, only to tense again at a shower of bitter laughter from Ambrosia.
“Lord Urdhven,” said the King in a low voice, afraid to look directly at him.
“I'll see to it,” the Protector replied curtly. “Tell them to go away.”
Go away? The King had been assuming that his Grandmother would take him home, that she would again protect him from his Protector, that everything would be all right again, or at least as right as it had ever been…. Now he saw that would not be.
Dimly he wondered what would happen to him. Not a public trial like this—not with Ambrosia on the loose. Nothing anyone could come and save him from. A fall down a stairway, perhaps, or a sudden illness, like his mother and father.
“Grandmother,” he said shrilly, moved by his own heart. (Was there a ceremony for such an occasion? Kedlidor had never taught it to him.) “Grandmother,” he said again more slowly, “I'm glad you're free. Good-bye!” Then he put his hands over his face so that no one could see him weep.
His tears soon passed, but he held his hands over his face still, hiding behind them—as he had often hid his face against his pillow while listening to strange noises in his room at night. He felt the Protector stand and heard him walk away. Still he hid behind his hands. He heard the crowd leaving and still he sat, hiding in the open. He sat until he felt the touch on his shoulder and a soldier's voice saying, “Come along now, Your Majesty. It's time.”
“Perhaps you're exaggerating slightly, Wyrtheorn?” suggested Ambrosia, smiling.
“Madam, he was absolutely snoring. You heard me. And I heard him. ”
“What an evil pig you are, Morlock,” Ambrosia remarked, “taking your ease when Wyrth had been working so hard on my behalf.”
“That's nothing. Wait ‘till you hear what he —”
The three were trudging among the Dead Hills surrounding the Old City. Wyrth was leading the black charger (which Morlock called by the barbarous name Velox), and when he expressed his overflowing emotions (as he frequently did) by some vigorous gesture, the horse tended to shy away. Wyrth had underlined his fresh accusation of Morlock with a great wave of the hand, and now Velox positively bolted. Wyrtheorn lost hold of the reins and had to chase the horse down, which he did with inexpert enthusiasm.
“Wyrth's in as good a mood as I've ever seen,” Ambrosia remarked, as the sounds of his shouting at the horse wafted back to them.
“I think he had little hope of success today,” her brother remarked.
“Had you?”
Morlock grunted and sat down abruptly on a nearby rock. “Yes. More than the occasion merited. It was a near thing. Help me out of this hardware, Ambrosia.”
“I can't.” She explained to him about her hands. His face grew grim.
“I'm sorry,” he said. “We'd better wait until Wyrtheorn returns; I can do you little good in these mailed gloves.”
Wyrth finally did return with horse in tow. “I figured it out,” he said, addressing Ambrosia. “He was unable to locate
“Yes,” said the black knight distinctly.
Silence fell.
The King sensed that something dangerous was in the air, but didn't yet know what it was. Then he turned and saw the Protector clenching his fists, his eyes as red as blood. The King's breath suddenly went out of him as he began to understand. But it was no longer his turn to speak; it was Morlock's, and he was taking intolerably long about it.
“Sire,” Morlock said finally, “I ask that the Protector of the Imperial Crown, one Lord Urdhven,” and he paused again, continuing, “I ask that he return the body of his champion to its blood-kin , who do not seem to be known in the city, so that they may dispose of it with their accustomed rites. ”
There was a puzzled silence, in which the King sensed rather than saw Lord Urdhven relax beside him, only to tense again at a shower of bitter laughter from Ambrosia.
“Lord Urdhven,” said the King in a low voice, afraid to look directly at him.
“I'll see to it,” the Protector replied curtly. “Tell them to go away.”
Go away? The King had been assuming that his Grandmother would take him home, that she would again protect him from his Protector, that everything would be all right again, or at least as right as it had ever been…. Now he saw that would not be.
Dimly he wondered what would happen to him. Not a public trial like this—not with Ambrosia on the loose. Nothing anyone could come and save him from. A fall down a stairway, perhaps, or a sudden illness, like his mother and father.
“Grandmother,” he said shrilly, moved by his own heart. (Was there a ceremony for such an occasion? Kedlidor had never taught it to him.) “Grandmother,” he said again more slowly, “I'm glad you're free. Good-bye!” Then he put his hands over his face so that no one could see him weep.
His tears soon passed, but he held his hands over his face still, hiding behind them—as he had often hid his face against his pillow while listening to strange noises in his room at night. He felt the Protector stand and heard him walk away. Still he hid behind his hands. He heard the crowd leaving and still he sat, hiding in the open. He sat until he felt the touch on his shoulder and a soldier's voice saying, “Come along now, Your Majesty. It's time.”
“Perhaps you're exaggerating slightly, Wyrtheorn?” suggested Ambrosia, smiling.
“Madam, he was absolutely snoring. You heard me. And I heard him. ”
“What an evil pig you are, Morlock,” Ambrosia remarked, “taking your ease when Wyrth had been working so hard on my behalf.”
“That's nothing. Wait ‘till you hear what he —”
The three were trudging among the Dead Hills surrounding the Old City. Wyrth was leading the black charger (which Morlock called by the barbarous name Velox), and when he expressed his overflowing emotions (as he frequently did) by some vigorous gesture, the horse tended to shy away. Wyrth had underlined his fresh accusation of Morlock with a great wave of the hand, and now Velox positively bolted. Wyrtheorn lost hold of the reins and had to chase the horse down, which he did with inexpert enthusiasm.
“Wyrth's in as good a mood as I've ever seen,” Ambrosia remarked, as the sounds of his shouting at the horse wafted back to them.
“I think he had little hope of success today,” her brother remarked.
“Had you?”
Morlock grunted and sat down abruptly on a nearby rock. “Yes. More than the occasion merited. It was a near thing. Help me out of this hardware, Ambrosia.”
“I can't.” She explained to him about her hands. His face grew grim.
“I'm sorry,” he said. “We'd better wait until Wyrtheorn returns; I can do you little good in these mailed gloves.”
Wyrth finally did return with horse in tow. “I figured it out,” he said, addressing Ambrosia. “He was unable to locate
Similar Books
