The Colors of Magic Anthology

I grew up in the tiny village of Tyarel, some eighty miles outside Jornstad, the seat of power of Eastern Kjeldor. Although Tyarel was a small town, it was located along a major trade route. It was constantly busy, caravans and travelers arriving at all hours of the day, soldiers and diplomats faithfully executing the orders of the king, and merchants offering their wares to those who passed through.

My uncle was one such merchant. He was a successful jeweler and a man of deep wisdom. When my parents succumbed to the plague, it was he who took me in and raised me as his son. He taught me to think critically, and he taught me his trade.

We both knew I was not destined to be a jeweler. I wanted to be an historian, and my uncle graciously agreed to provide financial support. So the day after my eighteenth birthday, I left for Jornstad to pursue my studies at an institution of higher learning.

Although I was anxious to leave home, I did not relish the journey. By law, we were required to travel under armed escort. Dangerous creatures of both the two-legged and four-legged variety roamed the wilderness.

The Dominarian landscape had been changed forever by the Brothers' War. The fury unleashed by Urza and Mishra had caused massive climate shifts from which the land still had not recovered. The apocalyptic war ravaged the whole world, bringing with it colder weather and upsetting nature's balance. The lower temperatures caused terrible food shortages, and creatures that did not die outright became more aggressive hunters.

Some of the larger ones were notorious for harassing travelers. Giant insects, dog-headed serpents, beasts of every ilk ruled the wildlands. Of these, the most feared were the wurms: massive creatures that slithered upon the ground, similar in every respect to their dragon cousins but without wings or legs. One in particular was said to plague the city of Jornstad. Indeed the locals had named it Rhindle. He was enormous-even for a scaled wurm-with sparkling, orange eyes and the scars of a thousand battles, or so I was told.

Many a merchant's caravan was lost on the road between Tyarel and Jornstad. I don't know how many went down to Rhindle's wicked claws, but survivors told frightening tales. They told of a massive creature, as stealthy as a shadow that lurked just beyond torchlight and waited for the proper moment to strike. The beast was said to possess an unusual intelligence, and perhaps that was the most frightening thought of all. Few people ventured outside of town after dark.

Thankfully, my little party did not encounter any such horrors. There were no fantastic two-headed creatures or winged predators. The true wonders awaited me in Jornstad.

I was used to the hustle and bustle of a busy town, but Jornstad staggered my senses. During the day it was a swirl of color and sound like a perpetual carnival. Merchant and passenger caravans constantly came and went through the city's sturdy gates.

The main avenue was adorned with towering poplar trees and colorful banners, and it ran through the well-kept public gardens known as Rothchild Park. An exquisite marble fountain adorned Rothchild Park, where two stone lions wrestled amid the splashing water.

In the summer, short as it was, the park was alive with the buzzing of insects and flowers of a thousand hues. Musicians and theatrical performers sometimes offered free shows where crowds could enjoy a brief respite from the chill.

When the colder months came, and the trees had lost their leaves, the gardens were no less enchanting. The stillness wove a different kind of magic. It was a world of mute snows, punctuated only by the laughter of children building snowmen and throwing snowballs at each other.

Beyond the gardens was the huh of activity in Jornstad. Shops, pubs, and meeting houses lined both sides of the street. Tobacconists mingled with wizards, beggars, and sculptors. Preachers and blacksmiths walked alongside carpenters and scholars. Street performers with trained animals tried to impress passersby, as messengers rushed past delivering correspondence between businesses. The aroma of bread and fish cakes wafted through the air from the street vendors who were selling their wares to hungry travelers. It was a delightful mix of diversities.

My first introduction to Jornstad was an intoxicating experience. After attending the college for almost two years, I was at last beginning to feel comfortable with the city, and it was a place I was proud to call home.

The sun had just reached its zenith on a cold, cloudless day, and I was trying to work up the courage to ask Evara, the baker's daughter, to accompany me to the Snow Festival. I leaned on a tree some distance away, admiring her long blonde hair woven into a single braid. She'd enchanted me with her blue eyes and a teasing grin. I breathed deeply and prepared to make my move.

"My young Finroy, may I have your assistance?" a familiar voice called from behind me. I turned to see the schoolmaster, Jerod, a warm and affectionate man in his late fifties with hair as white as his smile.

He was kind to everyone, and I was his favorite. Rumor among the boys was that he was quite a warrior in his day, but I never really could believe it. His unassuming way made him an instant friend to one and all, and he seemed to know everyone in town.

"What is it?" I asked.

He breathed deeply, savoring the moment, I think.

"Duke Devareaux approached me this morning about finding a young man from the school for a special job in the royal court. I thought you might know someone from among the boys ready for such a challenge. He would have to be a bright boy with a hardy sense of adventure, able to think quickly on his feet."

I shrugged, deeply disappointed. Had I even been considered? "I'm not sure, sir," I answered. "Thaddeus, or Shaboo maybe? They're quite smart."

A broad smile broke through his weathered features.

"I recommended you," he said after a brief pause, shaking my hand. "Congratulations, Finroy. The job's yours if you want it."

After a stunned silence I regained my composure. In my excitement I almost forgot to ask, "What job is this, exactly?"

"Well, Duke Devareaux didn't say, but he's a very powerful man, and if he said it was an important job, you can bet it's the opportunity of a lifetime. He said you may even have a chance to work under Lord Rothchild himself!"

Lord Rothchild. The region had had many good years under his reign. Farmers and merchants alike prospered under his rule. Men idolized him. Ladies swooned for him. Every child emulated him.

Peace with Balduvia, uneasy as it was, had begun to take root. Food was plentiful. Everything was going well, and Lord Rothchild got all the credit.

During the fifth year of his reign, a popular movement began to immortalize his likeness on the currency. Everything was paid for in Rothies, which bore the inscription Lord Rothchild: Will of iron, tongue of silver, heart of gold. Rich traders donated money to erect larger-than-life statues of him in town squares. Competition broke out, as each wanted to be the sponsor of the largest, most beautiful statue. His face was everywhere.

Working for Lord Rothchild would be an amazing experience. Shoulder to shoulder with one of the greatest leaders alive, I could study his every move and see what made him shine. I was enormously flattered that Jerod would recommend me for such important work. Of course I would seize the opportunity.

But taking the position would mean leaving the college, and my studies were not yet completed. All would be for the best I thought, because they did not teach what I wanted most to learn. I was no wizard, but I was seeking to understand the meaning of white magic and the significance it has for all Kjeldorans. I knew only that it was our history, our present, and our future.

I got no sleep that night. The thought of meeting Lord Rothchild the next day had my mind racing in a million directions. The dormitory seemed too quiet.

There were none of the usual shenanigans of boys sneaking about after dark, playing cards or dice by candlelight. I wished there was something to distract me, but it seemed to be just me and the night.

The next day I woke early. Donning my finest raiment, I made my way to the palace. A gate guard ushered me inside to the sitting chamber, where I was to be interviewed. We made our way through the stone corridors to a lighted doorway.

My nerves were rattled to the edge of fear. I was to meet the man whom many insisted would someday rule all Terisiare. I swallowed hard and continued down the corridor.

As I approached the threshold, I heard two men talking. I could tell by the unmistakable smooth drawl that one of them was Lord Rothchild.

He began with a chuckle, "I really don't need a valet, you know. That's what I have you for."

"Milord," replied the other man, who could only have been Duke Devareaux. His voice was as crisp as a ringing bell, "As distracted as I am over affairs of state, I am unable to devote my time exclusively to you, as a man of your standing rightly deserves."

"Ah, well," sighed Rothchild, "just see that he doesn't get in the way."

"I'm sure Milord will find the boy most capable and trustworthy and in time grow to rely on him."

The conversation stopped abruptly as I entered the room. Lord Rothchild was stretched on a low couch, loosely clasping a goblet of mead. He had an easy, friendly manner and sipped the mead often. His sandy hair and sparkling, blue eyes complemented a pristine blue tunic that had likely never known a crease. A sly, lopsided grin spread across his boyish face.

To actually be in Lord Rothchild's presence was thrilling, and I felt a little dizzy at first. The man radiated charisma and seemed to be the embodiment of every noble trait.

He bade me to sit on a high stool in the center of the room, and the interview abruptly began.

The two quizzed me for almost two and a half hours. Lord Rothchild asked me simple task-related questions. Did I know how to read and write? Could I demonstrate my knowledge of courtly etiquette?

Devareaux contrived strange scenarios for me to work through. If Lord Rothchild spilled a spot of soup on his shirt and was unaware of it, how would I handle the situation? What was the proper thing to tell a foreign dignitary if Lord Rothchild was unavailable?

I answered all the questions as best I could and must have impressed them. They asked me to leave the room for a time so they could discuss my performance. When I returned, Lord Rothchild stood up and offered me his hand.

"It's my pleasure to appoint you to the honored position of interim Regal Overseer, " he said, as if speaking at an official gathering, "and I wish to welcome you to the royal court with all the honors and privileges thus conferred. You shall perform all the tasks required of this noble position for a period of one month, after which your performance will be evaluated. If your performance pleases me, you shall stay on permanently." We shook hands, and the lord excused himself to attend to important affairs.

Devareaux took me aside as Lord Rothchild left the room.

"Son, I want to explain a few things to you," he said, getting right to the point. "The regent is a high-maintenance man. I expect you to fulfill his every need in a timely and respectful manner. But that's just the beginning. Lord Rothchild loves the people of Kjeldor, and he expects them to love him back. His untainted public image is very important to him, and it's up to you to see that it stays that way. Let me be perfectly clear about this," he said, pronouncing each word carefully, as dark clouds gathered across his face. "The price of failure is high, especially for a young man like yourself with his whole life ahead of him."

It began to dawn on me that maybe I was in over my head.

The next day I arrived at the palace gate at the appointed time with my possessions in hand and waited for Duke Devareaux to lead me to my quarters.

On either side of the gates stood a soldier of the Royal Guard, sworn to protect Lord Rothchild from harm. As merchants, servants, cooks, and carpenters passed through the gates, the guards made note of who came and went and inspected their wares. Other guards patrolled the outer wall high above, but in general, the atmosphere was relaxed. Lord Rothchild could afford this lax security, because there was not a soul in Jornstad who had not prospered under his reign.

My quarters were located in an area adjoining the royal palace. It was an area that was restricted to most but to which I was to have free access because of my duties. The quarters were comfortable but by no means extravagant. With stone walls and only one window, it tended to be a bit dark most of the day.

I stashed my belongings quickly and made my way to the meeting hall, where I was to convene with Duke Devareaux for a briefing.

"The task before you will not be an easy one," he said sternly. "I hope you're up to it. You were selected because you are the brightest in your class and a quick thinker.

"Things will not always be the way you expect them to be, but your job will be to always put Lord Rothchild first. If he stumbles, you are to make sure he does not fall. If he should make a mistake, you are to see that it is corrected."

He reviewed my duties and his expectations. He stressed the importance of the job I was undertaking. Kjeldor's enemies were forever looking to our borders for a sign of weakness. Our leader was more than a symbol of our freedom; he was the foundation of our freedom.

He explained to me the politics of the court, as well. The king and his wife, Lady Rothchild, were not on the best of terms. He warned me that Lord Rothchild was what the duke referred to as a "free spirit," and that didn't sit too well with Lady Rothchild.

It was a politically motivated marriage: a Kjeldoran king and a Balduvian queen-just the thing to bring peace to the warring factions. It worked for a time, too. The war had moved off the battlefield and onto the domestic front. The sides had, for a while, ceased to be represented by wily generals and battle-scarred troops and instead had been traded for a pair of bickering spouses.

Although the court tried to portray the royal couple as close, the cold, political nature of the marriage was common knowledge. She was unpleasant to look at and not well liked, but even if she'd been the fairest creature in all of Terisiare, all the women of Kjeldor would have hated her for envy.

After the conversation, I set out on my own, armed with Lord Rothchild's official schedule. I headed to the archery range, where I'd been told Lord Rothchild would be practicing until late afternoon. The range was deserted, so I wandered the palace grounds trying to find him. I acquainted myself with my new surroundings as I walked, asking the servants and gardeners I encountered if they'd seen Lord Rothchild.

By late morning, I at last caught up with Lord Rothchild. He was sitting on a box in the royal distillery, sampling the various spirits.

He noticed me immediately. "Come hither, young Finroy," he called. "Sit with me and share the solace of a smooth port wine."

"Yes, Your Highness," I answered, as I pulled up a crate and sat with the most revered man in all Kjeldor. Although my nerves were rattled by the presence of His Majesty, his easy way helped to temper my nervousness.

"I'm sampling a variety of blends for my upcoming meeting with Lord Barsus of Ojum," he said gesturing to four half-empty bottles beside him. "It's so important to have the right beverages at meetings between leaders. The proper drink can lubricate the political machinery. That's the secret of diplomacy.

"The Balduvian's bloodthirsty urges could never have been subdued with a fine wine such as this. A harsh people like that require a harsh drink-a drink with savagery and bite, the kind of drink that hacks at your tongue and leaves you for dead. Once you understand the people, it becomes plain that only cackleberry gin is right for ones such as they. Serve it at negotiations, and you are bound to earn their respect."

I sat with him for hours as he expounded his theories of diplomacy through alcohol. Lord Rothchild could engage a listener on just about any topic.

In the days that followed, I discovered that Lord Rothchild's official schedule was to be interpreted loosely, and he was most often in the place you least expected him to be. Searches would often yield surprising, or occasionally embarrassing, results. He could often be found in the royal gardens deflowering one of Lady Rothchild's many handmaids or rolling in the hay with the stablemaster's daughter.

If he wasn't in either of those two places, a trail of empty bottles usually led the way. I began to wonder that with all of Lord Rothchild's "commitments, " he managed to find time to rule. Devareaux always seemed to be at the events of state, though, to cover for him.

The best course of action seemed to be to leave Lord Rothchild to his own affairs, but my job wasn't any easier because of it. If Lady Rothchild wanted to take a stroll through the gardens at the wrong time, it could inspire a domestic incident. I had to make sure that didn't happen.

The lord was reckless with his reputation, so I learned to be everywhere at once. Lady Rothchild hated it when he drank, and he drank constantly. The best I could do was to try to keep the conflict to a minimum.

But for all his failings, when Lord Rothchild took the podium the magic began. He could spellbind an audience with his smooth and easy ways, whipping them into a patriotic fervor or soothing them to a quiet hush. It was as though he were a conductor leading a symphony orchestra.

For his part, he loved the adulation and would promise them anything just to hear the applause. Sometimes I wondered if he really knew what he was saying, but his words were so sweet that it didn't matter.

His public appearances were always great events, but the people of Jornstad were especially excited about seeing him at the Snow Festival, where he'd promised to joust with Sir Udo, champion of the lance.

Devareaux informed me that there were big plans for Sir Udo. He was to be assigned a regional governorship or a diplomatic position. Devareaux and Lord Rothchild wanted to bolster Udo's popularity, and what better way than public association with the most popular figure in the land? It was his concern for how the masses felt that kept our nation strong and stable, said Devareaux.

The contest was to be the following day, so after my usual duties were completed I headed to the armory to polish Lord Rothchild's armor. I stepped into the room where few were allowed to go and set down the cloth and bottle of whale oil I'd brought with me. I took a moment to gaze upon the contents of the royal armory. I'd never seen so many weapons in my life: rows upon rows of pikes, halberds, hammers, and swords. Every sort of ranged weapon was there, from fine elven bows and javelins to ordinary slings and armor of every sort. Some of it was comprised of tiny links, looking almost like wool sweaters. Other pieces were plated with great sheets of overlapping metal. Still other pieces had scales like dragon skin. These were no mere weapons; they were treasures, and the place was more museum than armory.

Draped over a mannequin in the center of the room was a breastplate and helmet, the armor that would protect Lord Rothchild from Sir Udo's ferocious lance. On its front, inlaid in gold and silver, was a stylized picture of a lion, mouth open in mid-roar, paw raised and ready to strike. The eyes of the lion were rubies, which shone like the setting sun. Its claws were of inlaid ivory and lapis lazuli.

A high-crested helmet sat atop the breastplate. It was plated in gold and bore an intricate flower pattern. Around the sturdy visor, where there should have been blossoms, the artisan who fashioned the helmet had instead set a variety of precious and semiprecious stones. The crest was adorned with huge red feathers that were not from any bird I'd ever seen, and the helmet's metal surface was unmarred by even the tiniest scratch. I wondered if it had ever been worn.

Most kings would be satisfied if this armor were their entire treasure trove. The workmanship was exquisite, with a level of detail that only magic could produce. I didn't know how Lord Rothchild had acquired the breastplate, but I was pretty sure it wasn't made locally.

For almost two hours I polished the armor. When I was done, my arms ached and my back hurt but the armor shone like the moon on a clear night. Looking at it, I could see my reflection clearer than in a still mountain lake.

The next day, it seemed as though every man, woman, and child in Jornstad had turned out to witness the festivities. I was as anxious to see Lord Rothchild square off against the popular Sir Udo as anybody in the crowd, but I was a little nervous. I made my way past the concessionaires, staggering under the weight of Lord Rothchild's armor, which I'd brought in a canvas sack.

It was a little too warm for a Snow Festival, but everyone seemed to enjoy the chance to set aside their work and socialize. Children tugged on their parents' clothing, coaxing them to buy a sugar stick or rag doll. Kjeldorans, young and old, perused the wares of the local artisans, admiring the workmanship of a designer cloak or haggling over the price of a commemorative "Lord Rothchild: Fifth Anniversary" plate.

A band was playing "Live Free, Kjeldor"-a happier version of the traditional march. Lovers danced to the strains of flutes and elven lyres, music caressed the clouds, and a smile was on every face.

I walked to the stable area, from where Lord Rothchild would enter the jousting arena, and positioned myself in the doorway. There I could watch the people go by as I awaited the lord's presence.

I listened to the music and searched the passing faces to see if I could find Evara. She'd sure be impressed if she came by and saw me working for Lord Rothchild. In the huge sea of faces I was unlikely to find her, but I decided to lean against the wall and look bored, as if I hadn't a care in the world, in case she could see me.

Time passed, and still Lord Rothchild did not arrive. People began to assemble in anticipation of the joust.

A harlequin dressed in red and white taunted passersby in a playful fashion. He imitated their mannerisms through a dancing puppet. The creature almost seemed to have a life of its own, its strings the only giveaway.

My thoughts turned again to Lord Rothchild. He still had not appeared. He's a responsible leader and the most powerful man in the province, I kept telling myself. Of course he'll show. If he can run a kingdom, he can certainly show up for a major event like this one-especially one as important as this, where he's the main attraction.

It wasn't working. I was as apprehensive as ever.

I stared at the arena's great sundial and watched the shadow crawl across its face. Each moment felt like an eternity, and the crowd began to grow restless. Devareaux entered the stables and looked around. I fidgeted nervously and tried to avoid eye contact. Saying nothing, he shot me a stare that could kill a charging war beast, glaring at me until I thought he could see what I was thinking. His eyes slowly wandered to the empty armor sitting on the floor. Abruptly, he turned and left.

Even now Devareaux was probably headed to the palace dungeon, to find the most wretched, dank cell in existence, a place where night and day would have no meaning, and rats would nibble on my frail, undernourished body. A place that would be my home until my dying day.

I ran from the stables into the deserted streets. Dashing from place to place, I checked all of the usual hideouts for any sign of Lord Rothchild. There was no sign of him in the bathhouse, nor on the gaming field. He was not to be found in the distillery or the wine cellar. He wasn't in the armory, and I doubted that he'd be anywhere near the library.

My desperation grew, and I was all too aware that time was passing. I returned to the arena, foolishly hoping that he might have shown up during my absence. Of course he had not. No one had seen him, and his armor lay untouched.

I saw no way out. I grabbed the armor and donned it as quickly as my hands would move, fastening the buckles and strings as best I could. I placed the great helmet on my head, lowering the visor. As far as the crowd knew, / was Lord Rothchild, and I would have to do my best to live up to his legend.

I called a stable hand to help me, and with much assistance was able to mount the lord's white steed. I hastened through the gates and into the arena before my good sense could stop me. Riding into the light from the darkened stables, I was momentarily blinded, but I could hear the crowd erupt in a roar of admiration. For a moment, I basked in the glory and love of the townsfolk.

When my vision returned I beheld Sir Udo, waiting in the center of the arena. He was built like a war engine, solid as an obelisk. His armor was bright red with black trim, and it dazzled the eyes. Lights danced around him like shooting stars. Whether it was a trick of the light, my tired eyes, or magic I did not know.

He sat astride a coal-black horse. The stout beast's ebony hooves pawed at the dirt, and it impatiently dipped its head. The creature seemed barely able to restrain itself, so anxious it was for the crash of steel and the smell of dust and blood.

A stable hand passed me the banner of Kjeldor, and hefting it up, I rode around the arena three times, as was the custom. Ladies threw flowers onto the field, and children waved. I waved back, concentrating on not falling off the horse. I could not see very well, since the helmet did not fit properly and had become twisted a little to the left. Only one eye was lined up with the view slit.

The crowd's adoration was enjoyable, but the deception unnerved me, and I was anxious to be done with it. I guided the horse to the far end of a long, wooden fence and turned to face my opponent.

Sir Udo waited with a cool reserve, confident in his ability. I swallowed hard and dug my heels hard into my mount. In a flash I was off, the king's mighty steed rippling beneath me, gathering speed as it galloped toward the knight. My balance was precarious, having been jarred by the horse's quick start, and I held on with both hands, my lance tucked limply under my arm. The distance closed in a hurry, in fact far faster than I'd anticipated, and I wasn't able to lift my weapon very far before Udo's furious lance struck me square in the chest. The world receded as I flew back like a puppet on a string.

Everything seemed to suddenly get very quiet except for the screaming pain in my chest. I would have screamed, too, except I couldn't breathe. It was as though a wooly mammoth were standing on my lungs while a fire burned inside. When breath at last came, I was only able to pant in quick, shallow gulps. Each introduced me to a new world of pain.

I looked around to see knights and squires rushing to my aid. Gathering my wits, I staggered to my feet and waved them-off, lest they remove my helmet and reveal my deception to all assembled there. I wobbled toward the edge of the arena, desperately trying to look unwounded. I think some of the knights helped me along as Devareaux came forth to meet me, flanked by the royal guard. He dismissed the knights who'd been helping me, and I lost my tenuous grip on consciousness.

Angels swam in the aether, singing the most beautiful melodies I'd ever heard. Millions of blue and green bubbles, glowing with an inner light, washed across my body like fireflies in a sea of liquid diamond. The angels' songs faded slowly, and a dull, thumping pain ushered me back to consciousness.

I awoke under the ministrations of Ariel, the royal herbalist. A woman in her early thirties, she had dark, flowing hair and kind eyes. She wore a loose white blouse, and a featureless coin dangled from a gold chain around her neck. I stared at the coin and realized my eyes were still too blurred to discern any detail. A steady buzzing hummed in my ears.

Ariel noticed I was awake. "How do you feel?" she asked.

"I don't know. I do seem to be in one piece."

"So what happened to you?" she asked, as she applied a magic elixir to my wound.

"Um… a hunting accident," I replied, still too groggy to make up a decent lie.

She smiled. "A hunting accident?"

"I was, uh, kicked by a horse."

She continued to smile. "Have you heard about the terrible blow Lord Rothchild sustained while jousting?"

"Indeed," I said. "How does he fare?"

"He'll be fine," she laughed.

Bit by bit, Ariel reconstructed me. As she wove spells and mixed potions, we talked. She told me the people of Jornstad were disappointed at Lord Rothchild's loss to Sir Udo but were already making up excuses for their champion's defeat. Sir Udo was more popular than ever, and citizens were crying for a rematch. I didn't want to think about it.

I got two lessons in white magic that day. Lord Rothchild's armor, it turned out, was enchanted with powerful magic. If the armor had been weaker I'd probably have been killed by the lance, although my broken rib might argue the point.

I also had a firsthand experience with miraculous healing magic. Ariel's unguents and potions had me patched up, and with only a day of rest I was ready to get back to work. Ariel said she could work wonders on wounds far more serious than mine.

Still I realized that the power to heal, impressive as it was, did not keep Kjeldor's enemies at bay. Powerful protection was not the reason for our nation's greatness. There must be more, I thought.

Ariel advised bed rest for the remainder of the day, but since I really wasn't tired, I sat in bed reading adventure stories.

Not long after, Lord Rothchild stopped by to check on me. I wanted to scream, "Where were you?" But, of course, one does not speak that way to a king, so we both avoided speaking about the obvious.

"You are an astute young man, Finroy," he said with an air of discomfort. He was more subdued than I'd ever seen him, and there was a serious look in his eye.

"I'd be proud to have you as my regal overseer. You have shown your true mettle and performed your duties admirably. Congratulations."

"Thank you, sire," I croaked.

"Well, the healer told me you'll be making a full recovery," he said, changing the topic quickly. "I'm glad to hear it."

We made light conversation for some minutes, and then Lord Rothchild wished me well and excused himself.

Come evening another visitor appeared. Devareaux, whose only interest in me up to this point had been to issue dire threats, almost seemed to show actual concern for my well-being.

"Your service to the king is rightly appreciated," he said. "You are a true patriot and an upstanding citizen of the nation of Kjeldor."

Even when granting compliments, the duke had a foreboding manner. If I'd heard only his tone, and not his words, I might have feared for my life, yet his actions were friendly enough.

He presented me with a box of wafers, which were wet with some kind of paste. They were, he explained, a remedy his mother used to give him when he was hurt. The thought of Duke Devareaux having a mother was enough to make me smile.

I sampled one, and it was the most wretched, putrid concoction I'd ever tasted. Despite an almost overwhelming urge to spit out the pasty wafers, I choked them down, one by one. This was the first genuine kindness I'd been shown by this man, and I certainly wasn't going to insult him or his mother. I wondered why folk remedies were always so unpleasant.

We talked, and his candor was unusual. He told me that Lord Rothchild's father had died in a sporting accident when Lord Rothchild was only six. His mother was taken the following year by consumption. The young Lord Rothchild had grown up without any guidance, the adults in his life catering to every whim of the little prince.

The lord had developed a pattern of irresponsible behavior that could have been his undoing. His saving graces were twofold: He knew how to surround himself with very capable advisors and assistants, and he had a charming personality and a gift for leadership.

Devareaux offered some very useful advice as well. He told me the places to look for Lord Rothchild at different times of the day if he wasn't where he was supposed to be. They were, of course, by no means certain, but hopefully they would be a template I could use to avoid future tests of my jousting skills.

Finally, he turned to go. When he reached the door he said one last thing. "You're an ambitious young lad. You could do well for yourself in this court. "

After my brief period of recuperation, I once again resumed my duties. My hands were full with Lord Rothchild's social and diplomatic calendars, and in addition, he was scheduled to speak to the people in a fortnight.

When the time came, I attended the event, which was rife with ceremony. He stood up to speak from his balcony, looking every bit like a man in his element. His voice boomed across the crowd, and it swayed like a cobra to his seductive thrall.

"The might of Kjeldor shall echo in Balduvian halls. It shall blow across the frozen forests of Fyndhorn like a blizzard. It shall lurk in the darkness, wrapping itself around the throat of the cowardly Lim-Dul. The foes of Kjeldor will scatter like chaff on the wind before our invincible armies.

"In a symbolic gesture of Kjeldor's greatness, on the morrow I shall venture alone into the heart of the forest to slay the vile scaled wurm Rhindle. Its head will grace the town square for all to see, an icon of Kjeldoran pride."

The throng went wild.

"Is there no limit to his greatness?" they murmured. "Kjeldor is truly the mightiest nation Terisiare has ever seen."

After the speech, my apprehension grew. So far, Lord Rothchild didn't seem to have a very good track record of correspondence between word and deed-and I was the one who had to live up to his promises.

My spirits were somewhat assuaged when I accompanied him to practice his fighting skills later in the day.

"How will you kill the creature, Your Majesty?" I asked as we rode to the training grounds.

"Through cunning and guile," he answered. "It will take a minimum of well-placed blows to fell the beast."

Perhaps you can pacify him with cackleberry gin, I wanted to say.

"You worry too much, Finroy. I think it's because you don't drink enough. Or perhaps I should send a girl to your quarters to ease your mind."

"I was only trying to be practical, Sire."

After securing our horses, we assembled on the grounds with some of the finest warriors in the land. Each demonstrated his or her technique to Lord Rothchild while I held the weapons.

The first lesson was in swordsmanship. Straw targets were placed at intervals around the course, and Lord Rothchild was required to demonstrate the abilities he'd learned on each one. He stepped like a dancer across the practice field and with a graceful pirouette plunged the sword into the straw effigies. His maneuvers were bold reinterpretations that bore little resemblance to the originals. Although he rarely missed the stationary targets, I wasn't sure how this would help him kill the creature. I was confident only that Lord Rothchild could expertly slay straw mannequins.

The next phase of his training was archery. The archery master suggested felling the beast with a poison arrow. Lord Rothchild seemed to like the idea but was unable to master the intricacies of archery. Arrows flew hither and thither, but none found their mark. One came dangerously close to hitting the master, and Lord Rothchild called a hasty end to the lesson.

I spent the rest of the day watching him wrestle with pikes and halberds, axes and slings. In the end I'm not sure that any real progress was made, but Lord Rothchild seemed very proud of himself, so of course we all congratulated him.

"I shall cleave the beast's skull with one blow from this mighty axe!" shouted Lord Rothchild, as he raised the weapon above his head and wohbled, slightly off balance.

"Oh, woe to the foes of Kjeldor," I responded nervously.

We packed our belongings into the saddlebags and left the training field. Lord Rothchild told me he was eager to square off against the creature and asked me to bring a bottle of wine and meet him the next morning by the fountain in Rothchild Park. My appetite was gone, and I got no sleep that night.

When morning came, I dressed smartly and headed to the park to see Lord Rothchild off on the glorious hunt. I stopped to buy the wine from Jorgensen, the stuttering priest, and was well on my way by the time the sun had risen. I arrived a half hour early and waited impatiently.

I could not help but think of the glory this deed would bring to Kjeldor and how the Balduvians would tremble when they heard. Then again, there was an outcome I hadn't considered. Lord Rothchild might be eaten by the scaled wurm, and the Balduvians might descend on the weakened kingdom, reducing all of Kjeldor to a smoking ruin. I tried not to dwell on that possibility.

The sun crept higher and higher into the sky, and still Lord Rothchild did not appear. I thought he probably wanted to be off and had taken an early start. I wanted to be sure, though, so after two hours I headed back to the palace to find him.

Wandering the palace grounds, I asked those I met if they'd seen Lord Rothchild. The gardener hadn't seen him. Neither had the maid. I could hear Lady Rothchild conducting her own search for him in a shrill voice.

I searched the archery range, the kitchen, the sitting room, and even the brothel, all to no avail. I made a quick check of the stables to see if Lord Rothchild had taken his horse. I opened the door and stepped inside, where I was greeted with a most disturbing sight.

Blood rushed to my head, and my knees weakened. The only thing I could hear was my heartbeat-loud in my ears. My worst fears were confirmed: Lord Rothchild lay on the floor, snoring loudly, empty bottles strewn about him. There were pieces of straw in his ruffled hair, his shoes were missing, and his pants were on backward. The place reeked of alcohol, and I started to feel light-headed.

I realized that if Rhindle's head failed to appear in the town square by the next morning, Devareaux might put my head on display instead.

Without thinking I ran to the armory, where Lord Rothchild's sword and armor sat sparkling in the dim torchlight. I snatched the sword and bolted outside, my senses blind to the world as I made my way through the narrow streets toward Fyndhorn Forest.

I plunged into the forest, recklessly zigzagging through the trees. The sky was overcast, and the green needles of the conifers and the deep brown leaves of the deciduous trees glowed in muted light. On any other day it would have been a beautiful sight, but today my world was dark, and the only sounds were the leaves crunching under my feet and the pounding of blood in my temples.

For hours I roamed the woods, alternately running and walking. I was prepared to throw myself at the beast, if only it would show itself.

After a while, I stopped to assess my situation. Alternate plans leaped into my head. I would kill the wurm and sever its head. I'd sneak back after dark and smuggle the head into town while everyone was asleep.

I was not trained as a warrior; my one chance was to catch Rhindle sleeping. First I had to locate its lair. Something as big as a scaled wurm would have a hard time finding a place to hide.

But I soon discovered Fyndhorn Forest was a big place.

I searched for places I thought the creature might hide. It would have to be a big pile of leaves or a cave. I came upon no caves. There were dead trees and rocks, but no scaled wurms lurked behind them. I walked around in a daze, fueled only by hope. Hope for what, I wasn't sure. Did I really want to find this creature?

Reality began to overtake me. I could not find the creature, much less slay it. My vision blurred, and hot tears streamed down my face. Frustrated, I dropped the sword and collapsed amongst the leaves. The cold numbed my hands, but I didn't care anymore. I wished the icy chill would overcome me and rid me of my troubles. I lay there not moving, as the wind whipped about me. I wondered how I had managed to get myself into such a hopeless situation. I bemoaned my fate, cursing the gods and my foolishness.

I don't know how long I lay among the leaves, but it soon became apparent to me that the cold was not going to kill me, and I was going to have to face my plight. I arose and picked up the sword, barely able to hold it in my frozen fingers.

Dark shadows had begun to engulf the forest, and a light snow started to fall. Strange sounds echoed about me, like a call to dinner for all the creatures of the woods. I realized that I too had a ferocious hunger-I had not eaten since the previous day.

Without light my chances of killing Rhindle were nil, and my chances of getting killed were almost certain. I hurried back in the direction of town.

I'd never been this deep in the woods before. The cold air stung my lungs, and my chest ached where the lance of Sir Udo had injured me. The trees seemed to take on leathery skin and reach out to touch me. Every mound of moss began to look like the scaled wurm.

Everything started to look the same in the fading light, and an endless parade of trees streamed by me. I maintained my focus and continued toward home.

I made it back relatively quickly. To be accurate, I tore up the miles like a wild buffalo. Soon I could feel the warm embrace of Jornstad and see the dwellings in the distance.

As I reached the edge of town and walked past some of the outlying homes, I hung my head. My body was weak, and my joints ached. I was disgraced and beaten. I'd failed Lord Rothchild and perhaps set the stage for the downfall of Kjeldor.

A great crashing noise from behind jarred me from my thoughts. I heard a terrible splintering and ripping of wood and foliage. It was as though a hundred bolts of lightning had struck the same spot in the same instant.

I spun around to see a medium-sized tree reduced to kindling. Above the debris towered the wicked Rhindle, even more impressive in reality than he had been in all my nightmares. His head was sleek and dragonlike, and his blue scales glistened in the gently falling snow. The massive creature's eyes were pinpoints of fiery orange and spoke volumes about his ferocity. He looked me right in the eye.

The hunter had become the hunted. I dropped the sword and took an instinctive step backward. The beast opened his huge jaws and let loose a roar that shook the firmament. His tail whipped toward me, advancing like a snake tearing through the underbrush and so enormous that it took two full seconds to reach the spot where I stood.

It struck my leg, shattering my right thigh and lifting me off my feet in a short and painful flight. My fall was broken by a dense thicket. Thorns tore at my skin as I hurriedly tried to crawl to safety.

Turning toward the village, I beheld a welcome sight. Alerted by the noise, townsfolk were pouring into the streets, rushing to my aid. Some had swords and bows, but most bore the tools of their trade or whatever else they could turn into a weapon. There were barbers armed with razors, carpenters with shovels, and hunters with harpoons. Some men had picks and shovels, women brought rakes and torches, and all advanced with a fearless determination.

I turned back to regard the beast. I'd put some distance between us, and the creature hadn't moved from the spot where it struck me. It didn't need to. Its long neck extended. The huge jaws descended, and I could feel the creature's hot breath.

One of the townsfolk hurled a short length of firewood at Rhindle, striking it on the nose. The beast instantly closed its mouth and recoiled with a look of incredulity. The log could not possibly have done any damage to such a massive creature, but the beast was stunned that tiny prey such as this would dare to fight back.

Taking advantage of the creature's hesitation, the villagers surrounded the wurm. With each passing moment more people rushed to the scene to help. Town guardsmen fired arrows into the wurm's thick hide. One woman tried to throw salt into its eyes. Children threw stones from a distance.

The creature was confused. Like a spider being swarmed by a thousand ants, there was nothing it could do. It advanced a few yards in one direction, stopped and changed course. The villagers fought more bravely than any well-trained army-they fought like a people defending their home.

The wurm thrashed about, spending more time defending itself than it did advancing on the town. The makeshift battalion continued its frenzied assault until the wurm finally gave up. The creature turned and tore off into the woods, knocking down trees and turning over large rocks in its path.

The brave citizens looked at one another in quiet disbelief. None would have dared believe they could defeat a creature so dangerous. Yet by standing together they'd accomplished what none could do individually.

Some were overcome by relief and awe. Others moved quickly to tend to the injured, who-along with myself-were taken to the healer. Miraculously, no one was killed.

That night a celebration began that lasted five days. Wine flowed freely, and songs were sung to the glory of Kjeldor. Poets composed epic poems commemorating the event. Artisans carved statues and painted life sized frescoes.

The people of Jornstad marveled at the wisdom of Lord Rothchild, who, through confrontation with the wurm, had taught them how to trust in themselves. He was hailed as the hero of the day.