The Eyes of the Dragon

99

Peter’s supper came promptly at six o’clock that Sunday night. The storm clouds hung heavy over Delain and the temperature had begun to drop, but the winds hadn’t yet begun to blow and not a snowflake had fallen. On the far side of the Plaza, shivering in stolen cook-boy’s whites, Dennis stood anxiously, drawn back into the deepest shadow he could find, staring at the single square of pale-yellow light at the top of the Needle, -Peter’s candle.

Peter, of course, knew nothing of Dennis’s vigil-he was filled with the wonder of the idea that, live or die, this would be the last meal he would ever eat in this damned prison cell. It was just more tough, salty meat, half-rotted potatoes, and watery ale, but he would eat it all. For the last three weeks he had eaten little and had spent all the waking time he did not spend working at the tiny loom exercising, readying his body. Today, however, he had eaten everything brought to him. He would need all his strength tonight.

What will happen to me? he wondered again, sitting down at the little table and grasping the napkin that lay over his meal. “ere exactly will I go? Who will take me in? Anyone? All men, it’s said, must trust in the gods… but Peter, you are trusting so much it’s ridiculous.

Stop. What’ll be is what’ll be. Now eat, and think no more of

But that was where his restless thoughts broke off, because as he shook the napkin out, he felt a small stab, like the prick of a nettle.

Frowning, he looked down and saw that a tiny bead of blood had seeped up on the ball of his right forefinger. Peter’s first thought was of Flagg. In the fairy tales, it was always a needle that bore the poison. Perhaps he had been poisoned now, by Flagg. That was his first thought, and not such a silly one, at that. After all, Flagg had used poison before.

Peter picked the napkin up, saw a tiny folded object with black, smudgy marks on it… and flipped the napkin back down at once. His face remained calm and peaceful, giving away none of the wild excitement that had burst up inside him at the sight of the note pinned inside the napkin.

He glanced casually toward the door, suddenly afraid he would see one of the Lesser Warders-or Beson himself-staring suspiciously in at him. But there was no one. The prince had been a great object of curiosity when he first came to the Needle, stared at as avidly as a rare fish is stared at in a collector’s tank, some of them had even smuggled their ladyloves up to look at the murdering monster (and they would have been imprisoned for it themselves, if they had been caught). But Peter was a model prisoner, and he had palled quickly. No one was looking at him now.

Peter forced himself to eat his entire meal, although he no longer wanted it. He wanted to take not the slightest chance of rousing suspicions-now more than ever. He had no idea who the note might be from, or what it might say, or why it had aroused such a fever in him. But for a note to come now, only hours before he planned to make his try to escape, seemed an omen. But of what?

When his meal was finally eaten, he glanced toward the door again, made sure the spyhole was closed, and walked to his bedroom with his napkin still held casually in one hand, almost as if he had forgotten that he held it at all. In the bedroom, he unpinned the note (his hands were trembling so badly he pricked himself again) and unfolded it. It was written closely on both sides in letters which were rusty and a bit childish, but readable enough. His glance went first to the signature… and his eyes widened. The note was signed Dennis-your Friend and Servant For-Ever.

“Dennis?” Peter muttered, so flabbergasted he was unaware that he had whispered aloud. “Dennis?”

He turned back then, and the letter’s opening was enough to shock his heartbeat into a fast drumroll. The salutation was My King.