The Eyes Of A King Part 17

"I tried to tell her what I had been meaning to-to be wary of her parents, and of Lucien. I tried to suggest that her parents might use the marriage to further any plot they had against the royal family. But I could not say those things straight out; it would have hurt her too much. So by the time Celine called her to leave, I was not sure I had made her understand.

"A carriage arrived to take her away to the harbor, to travel to mainland Malonia for her wedding the next week, and I gathered my things and escaped as fast as I could."

"You did what she said?" asked Raymond.

"For the better or the worse, I did." The butler shook his head. "I was being watched-she was right-and they came after me as soon as I left the grounds. Once I was out of that house and its strange atmosphere, I could see the danger clearly. What could I have done? If I had stayed, I would not have lasted long. And yet as soon as I went, I was followed. I reached the mainland, but they found me that same night."

Aldebaran put out his hand and turned on the lamp. "But I won't talk about that," he said, staring into the black night. "You did not want to hear a story about torture. And that's all in the past now...." He stopped. "I was too confident, I suppose. I always thought I could deal with anything, until I had to. I never imagined that the rebel groups would have men and women with powers equal to my own. There was one-a woman whose face was hidden-who was far stronger than I was. I did not dare to fight. I had that necklace hidden around my neck, and I tried to comply with them and wait for some chance to escape while I concentrated on protecting it with my willpower. Perhaps that was a stupid thing to do.

"Anyway, I was weak and faint by the end. They had chained my hands and gagged me. We marched through the rising dawn, and I did not know where we were going. We were in a dense forest. We started up a hill, through bushes and undergrowth, and then we stopped and the woman whose face was hidden stepped forward and released my hands."

Aldebaran was silent for so long that Raymond almost spoke. The butler looked up then. "That was the last I saw of my homeland," he said. "That forest was where I disappeared. I did not know it. It was darkness all around me for a long time. Then I woke up shaking from torture and in a strange country. I woke up here. I was an exile. It was what I had seen when I was a thirteen-year-old boy."

"They exiled you?" said Raymond. "How?"

"Some people develop these skills-what you call curses. I would never dare. It seems to me too dangerous, to force new rules on the world, to send people out of their own country and into other places where they do not belong, to confine a person's life with false rules that mean nothing real but that could kill them if they are broken." The butler shook his head and gave up trying to explain. "Anyway, I may not approve of these skills, I may not understand them, but she had developed them and I could not fight it. So that was it. I was here, in England, with nothing but the clothes I wore and the necklace. They had not taken it."

"Why not? I thought you said it was important."

"All I can think is that no one knew that I had it. Perhaps they had only seen enough to know that I was escaping. And I worked so hard to protect it all the time we were walking through that forest. It was all I did; I barely struggled or fought, but I protected that necklace. They know now, of course, that the silver eagle is here. But they exiled it when they exiled me."

"So that was why you came here?"

"Aye. Because I had no choice. And a few weeks later I arrived on your doorstep and you employed me as a butler, and I have been here ever since."

There was a silence. Then, "Very good, Field," said Raymond, clapping. "Very good indeed."

"Thank you, sir."

The butler looked up and saw that the darkness outside had fallen completely. "I have not heard such an entertaining story for a long time," said Raymond.

"But not a story. Is that not partly why it was entertaining-because it was true?"

"Perhaps. What happened in the end?"

"It is not finished. It is not a story; it is my life. At the present moment, I am cut off more than ever and I cannot communicate with Talitha at all. I don't know why."

"But, Field ..." Raymond began, with a faint smile. "The way you told that story, you made me believe that Talitha was not to be trusted. I thought that would be your surprise ending. I thought you were going to reveal the fact that she had betrayed you all along."

The butler fixed his eyes on Raymond. The old man's smile faltered. "That was what you made me expect ..." he said, then trailed off altogether.

"Not to be trusted?" said Aldebaran. "You are speaking of Talitha, the head of the Malonian secret service?"

"But that was what you implied yourself. First she sent you on a mission that turned out to be a trap, then powerful people were tracking your every movement and blocking your powers. And this woman who exiled you-I was certain you were going to tell me that it turned out to be Talitha herself."

Aldebaran leaned forward in his chair. "Sir, you understand nothing about what I have just told you. How can you suggest that Talitha -"

"I did not mean anything," Raymond said, startled. "It is only a story. I was only entering into the story."

"You understand nothing," the butler said again, raising his voice. "How can you accuse Talitha of that? The great ones are revered in my country; they are not traitors."

"Field, you are worrying me with this," said Raymond. "Stop pretending now. It was a good story while it lasted, and it pa.s.sed the time, but really! You must know that if this is a real lady you are talking about, then I don't mean to insult her, or anyone else for that matter. It was just a story. Field?"

Aldebaran did not answer. He was watching the moonlight on the lake outside. And then he began to feel uneasy. Something rose into his mind; he could not tell what it was exactly, but it made him anxious. Something in Malonia-some change just out of his sight. He felt these things still, the shifting fortunes of his homeland, in the same way he felt his old injuries ache in damp weather. He stared at the blank window and tried to see, but he could not concentrate.

"I think I have made a great mistake, Field," said the old man slowly.

"A mistake?" said the butler, without turning.

"In respect to my will. I think-" Raymond started up out of his chair. "Fetch me a pen and the envelope from my desk. Quickly!" There was panic in his voice suddenly. "Field!" He held out his hands as if he could not decide which he would rather-that Aldebaran went from him or stayed. Then he fell facedown on the carpet, his gla.s.ses splintering on the floorboards under the side of his cheek.

The butler knelt beside him. He lay still.

Aldebaran turned the man over silently. He was already far beyond calling, so the butler remained silent. He stayed there kneeling for a moment, then stood up and went to the desk. He took out the brown envelope from the top drawer and opened it. Inside was a thin sheaf of papers. "This is the last will and testament of me, Raymond Spencer-Grange ..." He skimmed through it quickly, searching for the key phrase. He found it soon enough, for the doc.u.ment was short: "I give the whole of my estate to Arthur Field."

The darkness grew thicker. The butler stood there, motionless, and stared at the will. Images came into his head, and he could not stop them.

The prince was crying while men talked above his head about exile and revolution. Anneline and Ca.s.sius were already lying dead.

And Emilie, Harold's Emilie, was close by. Her car had just turned over on the way back from Graysands Beach. The silver eagle was round the neck of the little girl crying in the hospital room.

And Talitha. He was cursing himself suddenly for not understanding before. What were powers worth, if someone who could see so far could blind themselves so entirely to the truth?

Every plan had gone wrong, and Aldebaran was powerless to do anything about it. He stood and read the old man's will, staring at those words through the tears in his eyes, and waited for the chaos of the worlds to subside.

We sat in silence for a long time after I closed the book. "Is that the end?" said Stirling then.

"Yes," I said. "For now, anyway."

"So that's what happened to Aldebaran. He went to England, like I thought, and then got the old man's house when he died?"

"But this was a long time ago, even if it's true. Talitha may have gone into England and killed him since then."

"I think he's still alive." Stirling frowned for a moment. "And I think the story went on. He is very clever; he can do all kinds of things. He would not just let his plans come to nothing like that."

"Maybe," I said.

"That little girl is a relative of ours," said Stirling suddenly. "That girl who has the necklace is a relative of Great-uncle Harold, so she is a relative of ours. If her grandmother was Harold's wife."

"You are right!" I said. "But this story can't be true. Someone must be making these things up."

"I don't think so. I think she is living in England now, that girl. And Aldebaran too. And the prince."

I was silent for a moment. "Stirling, what do you think this book is?" I asked then. "You've heard everything in it now."

"I don't know," he said. "It's magic, though."

"I think so too." I hesitated, then went on. "And listen-every time I read this writing, I feel as if I know what is going to happen next in the story. Is that not strange?"

He nodded. "So tell me what's going to happen."

"I don't know exactly. I just feel as though I have read this, or witnessed it, before. I have dreamed about some of this, and then it appeared in the book exactly the same."

At that moment the front door opened, and Grandmother called, "I'm home!"

Father Dunstan followed her into the room. "h.e.l.lo, Leonard," he said. I nodded to him and stood up, keeping the book behind my back. "h.e.l.lo, Stirling. How are you feeling?"

"Not so bad," said Stirling. "Maybe even better." I could not tell if he was saying that out of bravery or because it was true. I watched him carefully. Father Dunstan sat down on the edge of the bed and took out his watch, holding Stirling's wrist to feel his pulse. He examined the whites of his eyes and rested his hand on Stirling's forehead. We watched in silence. "You are doing fine, Stirling," he said after a moment. "Your pulse is almost normal, and your temperature is down slightly. I am surprised."

"What does that mean?" I demanded. "Does it mean Stirling is getting well?"

"I will be happier when his sight comes back," said Father Dunstan. "But these are good signs. I will come again tomorrow." He turned and looked up at Grandmother and me. "Sometimes these things do turn around. We will have to wait and see."

That was all he said each day. Two weeks pa.s.sed. Stirling stopped coughing and grew less confused. We waited. If Stirling was getting well, his sight would come back. Often when I sat beside his bed, I felt myself holding my breath. I did not sleep much. To keep myself awake in the silence of the dark apartment, I read and reread that book.

And then one day I stepped round the door of the bedroom and he turned and looked at me-straight at me, not slightly to the left or the right as he had before. I shouted to Grandmother, and she sent me running to the church for Father Dunstan.

The priest sat for a long time without speaking after he had checked Stirling's pulse and his temperature twice or three times. Then he shook his head and finally smiled. "This is not like slow-developing silent fever-at least no case that I have ever heard of. I would almost say ..." He shook his head again. "I must have made a mistake."

Stirling was almost completely well. Just like that. And we suddenly realized that it was the middle of July, and it would soon be the day of his First Communion. "I want to keep the date the same," said Stirling imperiously from his bed-quite unlike him. " We have to keep the date the same."

"But you have missed some of the cla.s.ses with Father Dunstan," Grandmother argued. "You have missed them all the time you have been ill. And what about the invitations? And we will have to have a party, of course." She was smiling anyway.

"I want to keep the date the same," he said again.

"What matter is it if he doesn't know what the seven deadly sins are, or how to decorate a pulpit?" I said.

"No, Leo. Don't be childish. The cla.s.ses are important."

"I do know what the seven deadly sins are," he said. "Sloth, envy-"

"There is always next year," Grandmother said.

Stirling nodded. "I suppose so, but ..."

"Very well," said Grandmother. "I had better start writing the invitations." She went to the cupboard and fetched the box of invitation cards she had been saving. She was humming in her old way as she began to write them, but today it did not irritate me.

"It is nearly six o'clock!" she exclaimed then, looking up.

"Why does that matter?" I asked.

"I am not ready for church." She sighed. "I don't want to go today, but I feel guilty when none of us is there. Oh dear-I suppose I can go tomorrow instead."

"I am going!" I told her. I had already put on my boots. I shut the door on the atmosphere of astonishment and ran as fast as I could and cared not at all when people turned to stare as I shot down the street.

It was humid in the city. There was a humming silence, and dark clouds sat heavily among the roofs. There were voices in the air; no matter how quiet it was, they would always be just too far away to hear, but the very atmosphere was buzzing with them. That weather usually comes before a change.

The thunder began as I reached the edge of the square, and then the rain fell as if it was pouring straight out of buckets. It came down so hard and fast that the empty pool in the center of the square filled up almost immediately, and the water dashing horizontally off the horse statue's lower lip made it look as if the fountain was working again. I jogged across the square, toward the lighted church doorway, my clothes already soaked.

"Leo!" someone called from behind me, and I turned and saw that it was Maria. She did not have Anselm with her. She ran toward me, holding up her skirt so that it would not trail in the streaming mud, and supporting her jacket over her head with the other hand.

"Maria!" I shouted, spinning around where I stood.

"You are coming to church on a weekday?" she yelled through the rain. "Can this be true?"

"Yes!" I announced, mad from the storm and the exhilarating relief that Stirling was well. "Yes, I am coming to church!"

"And why might that be?" She laughed at my wild eyes. "What has happened to you, Leo?"

"Stirling is well! It is not silent fever after all! His sight has come back!"

The lightning slashed the sky in two and made the pool flare. She reached me and looked up, smiling. There was water on her eyelashes and shining on her cheeks, and a drop fell from her full bottom lip. On a sudden impulse I grabbed her and kissed her. Just like that.

"Leo!" she exclaimed breathlessly, pushing me away. "We are outside the church! What will people think?" She was laughing, but uneasily.

"I don't know," I said. "What will they think that matters?"

"They will think you're Anselm's father, that's what."

"Oh." I stepped away. "A fair point. Sorry."

"And if you want to kiss someone, you should ask them first." She was smiling again now.

"Sorry. It will not happen again."

"For your sake, Leo, it better had not."

"No. Next time I will ask." I turned to her, laughing. "Can I kiss you, Maria?"

She slapped me, but not hard. "Get into the church, Leo. Get into the church and repent of your sins!" We stumbled through the door, suppressing laughter. I was embarra.s.sing myself. I didn't care.

The church was almost full, in spite of the torrential rain outside. "I have never seen you this happy," she whispered as we sat down in the back pew. But she was smiling too, and I realized suddenly that there were tears in her eyes. She wiped her face on her sleeve. "I can hardly believe that Stirling is well. I saw he was much better when I sat with him yesterday, but I thought it was too much to hope ..." I reached out and took her hand. She let me.

But people were glancing at us then, and I slid along the pew to a respectable distance. "Maria?" I asked.

"What?" But at that moment the bell rang at the front of the church, and everyone stood up.

Church was not dull and meaningless that day. That day it was true.

I walked home with Maria. The rain had stopped and left a dripping stillness and a quiet evening sunlight. A rainbow shone in the east, over the hills, where it was raining yet and the sky was thick and gray. "I think everything makes sense now," I said suddenly.

She laughed. "What?"

I spread my arms wide and lifted my face to the sun and yelled, "Everything!"