Alone in the dark, he realized he was again afraid of the ghost, more than he had been since Lhel gave him the doll. But even that didn’t stop him from whispering the words; Brother sometimes knew the future, and Tobin couldn’t sleep until he’d at least asked.
When Brother appeared, bright as a flame in the dim little chamber, he still had that too-real look.
“Will Orun send Ki away tomorrow?” asked Tobin.
Brother just looked at him, still and silent as a painting.
“Tell me! You’ve told me other things.” Mean, hurtful things, and lies. “Tell me!”
“I can only tell what I can see,” Brother whispered at last. “I don’t see him.”
“See who? Orun or Ki?”
“They’re nothing to me.”
“Then you’re no good me!” Tobin shot back bitterly. “Go away.”
Brother obeyed and Tobin hurled the doll back into its old hiding place atop the dusty cupboard.
Returning to the bed, he climbed in and snuggled close to Ki. Rain was pattering on the roof and he listened to it, waiting in vain for sleep to take him.
It was raining even harder the next morning. All around the Companions’ wing servants were setting out pails and basins to catch the water leaking through the ancient ceiling.
The weather had never made any difference to Master Porion. Tobin woke Ki as soon as he heard servants moving past in the corridor, and they made certain they were the first ones waiting for the swordmaster at the palace doors. Despite what Mago had said, the stocky old warrior seemed genuinely glad to have them back.
“All well, are you?” he asked, looking them over. “You don’t look much the worse for wear.”
“We’re fine, Master Porion,” Tobin assured him. “And we practiced while we were gone, too.”
That earned them a skeptical look. “We’ll see about that, won’t we?”
They had both mended. Even Ki, who’d been the sickest, kept up with the others as they set off on their morning run. Splashing though puddles and squelching through mud with their short cloaks flapping wetly against their thighs, the Companions ran the long circuit around the park, past the tomb and the drysian grove, around the reflecting pool and past the New Palace, and ending as they always did at the Temple of the Four at the center of the park.
The boys’ morning offerings were usually cursory affairs, but today Tobin spent several minutes at Sakor’s altar, whispering fervently over the little wax horse before casting it into the flames. Then, when he thought no one was looking, he sidled over to the white marble altar of Illior and cast one of Iya’s owl feathers onto the incense-laden coals.
Lord Orun’s summons came just as they were finishing their bread and milk in the messroom. Tharin must have been keeping watch, because he came in with the messenger. Dressed in a fine blue tunic, with every buckle and brooch polished, he cut an impressive figure. Korin gave Tobin an encouraging wink as he and Ki went out.
When they were out of earshot, Tharin dismissed the messenger and turned to Ki. “Wait for us at Tobin’s house, why don’t you? We’ll meet you there on our way back.”
Tobin and Ki exchanged grim, knowing looks; if the worst did come to pass, they wouldn’t risk shaming themselves in front of the other Companions.
Ki punched Tobin on the shoulder. “Stand your ground with him, Tob. Good luck.” With that he strode away.
“You’d better change out of those wet things,” said Tharin.
“I don’t give a damn what Orun thinks!” Tobin snapped. “I just want this over with.”
Tharin folded his arms and gave Tobin a stern look. “So you’re going to go before him dressed like a common soldier, muddy to the knees? Remember whose son you are.”
Those words again, and this time they stung. Tobin hurried back to his chamber, where Molay had a steaming basin and his best suit of clothes ready for him. Washed and changed, Tobin stood in front of the polished mirror and let the valet comb his black hair smooth. A grim, plain boy in velvet and linen scowled back at him, ready for battle. Tobin looked into his own reflected eyes, feeling for a moment as if he were sharing a secret with the stranger hidden behind his face.
Orun’s grand house stood in the maze of walled villas clustered on the New Palace grounds. Bisir met them at the door and ushered them into the reception hall.
“Good morning!” Tobin greeted him, glad to find one friendly face here. But Bisir hardly spoke and wouldn’t meet his eye. It was as if a single night back in his master’s house had undone all the good his time at the keep had accomplished. He looked as pale as ever, and Tobin saw new bruises on his wrists and neck.
Tharin had seen, too, and an angry flush came over his face. “He has no right—”
Bisir shook his head quickly, stealing a quick glance toward the stairs. “Don’t trouble yourself on my account, my lord,” he whispered, then, aloud, “My master is in his chamber. You may wait in the reception chamber, Sir Tharin. The Chancellor will speak with the prince alone.” He paused, clasping his hands nervously, and added, “Upstairs.”
For a moment Tobin thought Tharin was going to storm up with them. The man’s dislike of Orun was no secret, but Tobin had never seen him so angry.
Bisir stepped nearer to Tharin, and Tobin heard him whisper, “I’ll be close by.”
“See that you are,” Tharin muttered. “Don’t worry, Tobin. I’ll be right here.”
Tobin nodded, trying to feel brave; but as he followed Bisir upstairs, he drew out the ring and seal and kissed them for luck.
He’d never been upstairs before. As they continued down a long corridor toward the back of the house, Tobin was amazed at the opulence of the house. The carvings and tapestries were of the best quality and the furnishings rivaled anything in the New Palace. Young servant boys scattered out of their way as they passed. Bisir ignored them as if they didn’t exist.
He stopped at the last door and let Tobin into the enormous chamber beyond. “Remember, I’ll be right out here,” he whispered.
Trapped, Tobin looked around in surprise. He’d expected a private sitting room or salon, but this was a bedchamber. An enormous carved bedstead dominated the center of the room. Its hangings—thick yellow velvet edged with tiny golden bells—were still closed. So were the draperies at the windows. The paneled walls were hung with tapestries of green woodland scenes, but the room was as hot as a smithy and heavy with the aroma of cedar logs blazing and snapping on the enormous stone hearth.
Even Prince Korin’s room was not so lavish, Tobin thought, then started as bells on the bed hangings tinkled softly. A plump white hand emerged and drew back one of the heavy curtains.
“Ah, here is our little wanderer, returned at last,” Orun purred, waving Tobin closer. “Come, my dear, and let me see how you weathered your illness.”
Propped up against a mass of pillows, Lord Orun was wrapped in a yellow silk dressing gown; a large velvet bed cap of the same color covered his bald head. A crystal lamp hung from a chain, casting shadows that made his face seem more sallow than ever, his heavy flesh slacker on his bones. The counterpane was strewn with documents and the remains of a large breakfast lay on a tray beside him.
“Come closer,” Orun urged.
The edge of the mattress was nearly level with Tobin’s chest. Forced to look up at the man, Tobin could see the grey hairs in his guardian’s large nose.
“Do