Book Two of the Travelers (18 page)

C
aught off guard by the attacker, Alder was sure his skull was about to be split in half.

But just before the blade reached him, it stopped. There was a very brief pause, then the man with the sword stepped back into the light.

“Sorry about that,” the man said. Now that he was completely visible, Alder saw that he was a tall, pleasant-looking man with a broad grin on his face. “When I heard all that thumping and bumping, I thought for sure you were a quig!” The man laughed as he sheathed his sword.

Alder sat up gingerly. After his undignified tumble down the steep tunnel, he felt like one giant bruise.

The smiling man reached out his hand. “My name's Press,” he said. “If I'm not mistaken, you're Wencil's student, Alder.”

Alder took the man's hand. Press effortlessly hoisted Alder to his feet. The man was dressed like a Bedoowan knight. But he wasn't anybody that Alder had ever seen at the castle.

Press looked up the incline into the tunnel. “Ah, that's young Gaveth, isn't it?”

“Do I know you?” Gaveth said.

“I knew your father,” Press said. “Before he was killed in the mine.”

Alder looked at Gaveth. “You? Your father…So, when you were talking about kids starving because—”

Gaveth looked away. “I'm old enough to work in the mine. We get by.”

“Gaveth,” Press said, “would you excuse us? I need to have a conversation with Alder.”

Gaveth nodded. Alder followed the dark-haired man back into the chamber. It was illuminated by a brightly burning light of the sort used in the castle.

“Sit,” Press said, indicating a hump of rock in the corner of the room.

Alder sat where the man pointed.

“I have a lot of things to tell you,” he said. “But first, I've got something to give you.” He extended his hand. In his palm lay a small silver ring with a stone in the center, its outer edge inscribed with tiny symbols written in a language that Alder didn't recognize.

He reached out and took the ring.

“What's this all about?” he said, trying on the ring. It fit perfectly on the fourth finger of his right hand.

“Like me,” Press said, “you are a Traveler. Let me explain what that means….”

I
t was late and dark when Alder passed through the walls and into the town that formed the outer ring of the castle. He stopped at Wencil's house. The house was dark, and no one answered when he knocked.

He continued on to the castle to go back to his dank little room. As he passed through the inner gate, one of the guards said, “Come with me, Alder. The king commands your presence.”

Alder's eyes widened. For a moment he wasn't sure what the guard was talking about. The king?
The
king? King Karel? “You mean—”

But the guard turned away before Alder could finish his not-very-bright-sounding question. Alder flushed, feeling stupid now as he followed the guard.

They went through the entrance to the king's own household. Everywhere he looked, objects made from pure glaze gleamed in the subdued light. He had never been here before. The magnificence of the place was astounding.

Because it was late, the rooms were deserted. The only
sound was that of their footsteps.

Eventually the guard reached a heavy wooden door. He knocked, then threw the door open and said, “My lord, he is here.”

Alder hesitated.

“Go!” the guard said harshly. “The king is waiting.”

Alder entered. At the far end of the room he saw two figures standing next to a bed. One of them turned—an old man with a long white beard. It was King Karel.

Alder bowed low. “Your Highness,” he said nervously.

“Come,” the king said. He had bright blue eyes and a kind face.

Alder approached, recognizing the second man. It was Mallos, the king's chancellor. His face was cloaked in darkness, only one eye visible. It was a very pale blue.

“Your master is extremely sick,” King Karel said.

It was only then that Alder saw Wencil lying on the bed. His face was drawn and haggard, and his eyes were closed. “Wencil!” Alder cried. “What happened?”

“Let him rest,” Mallos said softly.

King Karel put his hand on Alder's shoulder. “Wencil was my instructor, you know. He was barely older than I. But he was the best swordsman alive.” The king smiled sadly. “He was a great friend to me.”

Mallos turned to Alder and said, “The king's doctor has been with him. He says that Wencil will not make it through the night.”

“What!”

Mallos nodded. “Apparently, he had been sick for a very long time.”

“But…he never told me….” Alder felt a crushing weight on his shoulders. For the past six months—for the first time in his life—he had felt a sense of belonging, a sense of attachment. It was the feeling that everyone with a family must have, but that he had never really known.

And now…it was all being snatched away? It couldn't be! It just couldn't.

“I'm sorry,” the king said. “I wanted to give my personal condolences to you. Wencil was a very picky instructor. He only chose to teach those of extraordinary promise. If he chose to teach you…” He spread his hands, as though nothing more needed to be said.

Extraordinary promise? From the way Wencil drove him, it seemed that he could never do enough, that he never had enough skill or bravery or talent. Surely there must be some mistake.

King Karel looked at his chancellor for a moment. “What do you think, Mallos? Is it time?”

Time for what?
Alder wondered.

“While he still lives,” Mallos said.

The king nodded thoughtfully. Then he turned to Alder. “Kneel, boy.”

Alder felt confused. What was going on? But you didn't ask questions when the king told you to do something. He knelt.

The king drew his sword, a beautifully jeweled blade.

“Alder, pupil of Wencil, I bind you to the realm,” he intoned. His voice was soft and scratchy. “With this, I call you…
knight
!”

Alder couldn't believe it. Right here? Right now?
A wave of relief and gratitude flooded through him. He had heard the words spoken as so many other boys became knights. And to think that the king was speaking them now…right here! In his own chambers!

With that, the king rapped Alder on each shoulder with the sword. Alder was surprised at how hard the king hit him. Each blow stung.

“Stand, knight,” the king said.

Wencil stirred in the bed. Had he heard the ceremony? Had he felt a moment of pride that his last student had become a knight?

Alder felt tears running down his face. His mind was a whirl of emotion. His legs felt weak.

King Karel squeezed his shoulder. “I'm sorry, young knight. I would stay, but I am not so well myself.” He smiled sadly and walked from the room. His gait was slow, and Alder saw that one of his hands shook uncontrollably.

Then the king was gone.

“An era is passing,” Mallos said. “The time of great heros is slipping away, I'm afraid. King Karel and Wencil are the last of their breed.”

Alder looked at the chancellor. He was an extremely tall man, thin lipped, without an ounce of extra fat. Unlike most Bedoowans, he looked like a true warrior.

For a while the chancellor was silent. Wencil drew in a long, deep breath. It sounded as if he were having to fight just to bring in air.

“Can't we do something?” Alder said. “Can't the doctors—”

“He's past that,” Mallos said.

Wencil drew another long, ragged breath.

“Stay with him, Sir Alder,” Mallos said. “He cared for you a great deal. As he slips away, let him know that you have understood what he has given you.”

Mallos left without another word, leaving Alder in the darkness.

A
fter Wencil's funeral, Alder felt aimless. He had nothing to do, other than meaningless guard duty at the castle gate. He had no friends. He had no one to train with. He was a knight now. But nobody cared.

As always, he remained cheerful, trying to be obliging, trying to be friendly. But it seemed to have no effect on anyone. He remained an outsider.

And the conversation he'd had with Press? It seemed distant and silly. All this talk about destiny and Halla and this big conflict between good and evil? Since that conversation, nothing had happened. He guarded gates through which no one entered the castle. He marched around the parade ground. So he was a Traveler. What did that even mean? The whole thing began to fade, almost seeming like some kind of dream. Or worse, like a cruel joke.

He felt as if he had been handed a brief moment of happiness. And now it was all being snatched away.

Then one day he returned to his room, and to his surprise, a man was sitting on his bed.

It was Mallos, black clad as always.

Alder stared at him.

“I apologize for invading your room,” the chancellor said.

“No problem, my lord.” Alder bowed. “Is there—did I do something wrong?”

Mallos's thin lips smiled briefly. Then the smile faded. The cold blue eyes studied him for a moment.

“I too know what it means to be alone,” said Mallos. “To be without purpose and direction. To be without the bonds of friends and family.”

“Sir?”

Mallos nodded. “Wencil was right, you know. You are a boy of extraordinary promise. I've had my eye on you.”

Alder found this a little shocking. Other than the night Wencil died, he had never even spoken to the chancellor. “Really?”

Chancellor Mallos leaned toward Alder as if he were sharing a secret with him. “The knights here are mostly a useless bunch. But there are a few good ones. All the members of the king's guard are good men.”

Alder couldn't figure out where this was going. Why was the king's chancellor sitting around talking about this in the room of a young man who'd been knighted not more than three weeks ago?

“How would you like to join them?” Mallos said. “You'd be under my personal command.”

Alder stared.

Mallos smiled. “I'll take that as a ‘yes.'” He
stood briskly and walked to the door. “Report to the guardroom at first light.”

“Thank you, my lord!” Alder stammered.

The chancellor paused. “Remember, Sir Alder”—he touched the side of his nose with one long finger—“whatever you do, wherever you go, my eyes are on you.”

And then the chancellor was gone. Alder paced around the room, a mixture of excitement and nervousness running through him like an electric charge. This was so unexpected that he didn't know what to make of it. The king's guard? They were the elite of the elite!

His head was in a whirl. Everything had changed so much lately. The king's guard, the death of Wencil, this whole Traveler business…and now the sudden attention of Mallos. It was hard to make sense of it all.

Alder had always heard bad things about Mallos. Cruel, mean, deceitful—all that sort of thing. And yet here he was, being really nice to Alder. Maybe Mallos wasn't so bad after all. Maybe he was just misunderstood. Maybe—Well, he'd find out eventually, wouldn't he?