The Prince in Waiting by John Christopher

as I am.”
    He looked at her. “Is there nothing you want?”
    She put slippers on his feet. “For myself, nothing. I have it all.”
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    That night Ezzard presided over a true Seance. We sat in darkness while the Spirits manifested themselves in strange sounds and sights: weird music, fluting high up in the rafters, tinkling bells, lights that moved across the blackness overhead, faces suddenly appearing as the Spirits put on again the flesh they had long outgrown. Voices.
    A woman asked for help, her husband being sick, and was answered by the Spirit of her mother, ten years dead. She was told of herbs to pick, at a certain time and place, and of a broth to be made of them which would cure the sickness. There was a little dim light now, from the lamps of the Acolytes who stood on either side of the Hall, and I could see her, a small thin woman, nodding her understanding and thanks.
    Others followed with questions. One of them, a farmer, said:
    â€œI lost six lambs last year. I paid gold to the Seer for an audience and was told all would be well. This year I have lost eight. What of the promise?”
    He spoke almost truculently. The Spirit who answered was that of his grandfather’s father. He said:
    â€œThomas, you farm the land I farmed. Do you do your duty?”
    â€œI do.”
    â€œDo you keep the laws?”
    â€œI keep the laws.”
    â€œThen you would have prospered. Unless . . .”
    â€œUnless what?”
    â€œUnless you have kept Polybeasts that should have been killed at birth, and raised them for meat.” There was a pause, but the farmer made no reply. “You lied, Thomas, when you said you kept the laws. That is why your flocks have sickened a second time. No gold will save him who defies the Spirits.”
    He went out, shuffling. There were others, some rebuked, some advised, some comforted. Then when the questions were over the little lamps were turned down again and the darkness returned. And in front of us a face grew, like a stern majestic man’s but larger. A voice cried, deep and resonant:
    â€œI speak, Stephen, Prince of this city in years gone by, ancestor of one who dishonored my name and lately died for it. The Spirits who guard this city have given you a new Prince. He will rule you well and lead your warriors to battle against your enemies—to battle and to victory.”
    There was a deep hush, not even a chair squeaking. The voice said:
    â€œThe Spirits crown your Prince.”
    It floated down from above, gently, gently, in the shape of a crown but having no substance, a faintly glowing crown of light. It came down to where my father sat, and hovered just above his head.
    This, though a wonder, was expected. What followed was not. The voice spoke again:
    â€œA great Prince and the father of one yet greater. His son shall be Prince of Princes!”
    A second crown appeared out of the darkness. Peter stood on my father’s right hand and I watched for it to move toward him, to rest over his head as the first one rested over my father’s. And then my heart pounded, the blood dinned in my ears and I put my hand to the chair behind me so that I should not fall from dizziness. And my eyes were dazzled with the light shining down onto my upturned face.

FOUR
THE PRINCE OF WINCHESTER
    T HE SUMMER OF THAT YEAR —a year that ended wretchedly—was the happiest time of my life. This was not because the Spirits had named me heir to my father, a future Prince of the city. At least that did not seem to be the reason, though I suppose it must have been a part of it. There was excitement in the air and the city buzzed with activity and expectation. The resentments which had gathered over the years against Prince Stephen’s policy of skulking behind walls turned into a feeling of release. It lifted my father to a height of popularity which I do not think the other Captains, when they