Legends of Luternia (3 page)

“Father?”

No response came from the royal bed. Ulrik wanted to turn and flee from the dark and into the light but duty forced him to stay. Timidly, he touched the blankets feeling for his father’s arm.

“Father?” He nudged the shape beneath the covers. It moved.

“Father?” He nudged again and waited for a response.

“Your Majesty?” King Arnuff moved and groaned.

“Who?” wheezed the king.

“It’s Ulrik, your son.”

“Son.” The word returned as an echo.

“Yes, Father, “I’ve brought you your dinner.”

The old king looked at the bowl and licked his lips and began to sit up to receive his food. Ulrik picked up the silver spoon and loaded it with gruel, but then returned it to the bowl. He looked to his father and yearned to reach out with his words, except that his words exploded in a torrent of anger and frustration, “The Mage says you’re dying and that I have to go find a special flower to make you well. But I don’t know what to do, Father. I don’t know what to believe. What should I do? I need to know. Shouldn’t I stay here with you, to help you, to take care of you? Don’t you need me here?” He struggled to keep back his tears, fighting the urge to cling to the old man. “I don’t want to go. I want to stay here with you.”

“Son.” The hollow word rattled from the king’s throat.

“Yes, Father, it’s me, Ulrik. Help me now, please. What should I do?” pleaded Ulrik.

“Who?” questioned the king.

“It’s me, Ulrik, your son.” He looked into his father’s eyes. The king stared past him, his eyes fixed on a spot on the wall.

“Your Majesty,” said Ulrik as he adjusted the old man into a sitting position, “let me help you with your meal.” Ulrik again took a spoonful from the bowl and fed the once mighty king, making sure to wipe the flecks of gruel from his father’s chin.

Duty done, Ulrik settled the frail man back in his bed. As he adjusted him, the king’s hand shot out from under the covers and grabbed Ulrik by the shirt, pulled him closely and brought Ulrik’s face before his own. His eyes flashed with ancient strength and the voice that thundered over battlefields commanded, “Ulrik, my son, help me. Save me.” The king collapsed back onto the bed. The vacant stare returned to his eyes. Trembling, Ulrik took the tray, left the royal bedchamber, and returned to the kitchen.

The fragrance of apple pies in the oven embraced the troubled prince with a feeling of life. The bright fire in the hearth created an island of light and warmth.

“I know what I must do, but I don’t want to do it,” Ulrik finally said to Helga, after describing the visit with his father. Helga listened closely as she set the tea kettle on the fire and went about the other business in the kitchen.

“What should I do?” he continued. “If I go, I will be abandoning my father. If I stay then hope for him will be lost.” He wrapped his arms around himself and rocked slowly. “I can still see his eyes looking into me. Remember how powerful and strong his eyes were when he prepared for battle? That same, strong look bore into me for a moment, ordering me to go, but pleading for help, too. I’ll never get his look or his command out of my mind. What should I do?”

“When I’m in a worrisome spot,” Helga answered, “I look for a special word of help. Go and get the book.” Ulrik went into the pantry, opened the hidden cupboard and eased the book out. Countless hours of reading and study had worn the calfskin cover thin in many places and the repairs revealed the book’s long history. Remnants of the original gilding remained on the edges of the pages. A spine made of flour sacking bore witness to its present owner.

Helga muttered, “Your mother gave me this before . . .” A tear rolled through the wrinkles on her cheek. “You were so young and just beginning to . . . Ach, enough of that. Hand me the book.” She put the rolling pin down and wiped every grain of flour from her large hands and received the worn volume from Ulrik. She laid it on the table, opened it, and thumbed through the pages, looking for that one long remembered word. Heavy footsteps echoed from the hallway. Ulrik looked to her and reached out to grab the book in order to hide it again. Too late. The shadow of a large man filled the doorway.

“Uley?” It was Edgar. Helga reached out to him from the table, “Come join us. We’ll be having some tea and pie in a minute or two.”

“Smells good.” When he saw the book on the table he smiled.

“We’re looking for a word to help the prince. Ah, here it is. Ulrik, read this to us.” She handed him the open book and pointed to a specific place.

“The cords of death bound me. Sheol held me in its grip,” he looked up after reading the words. “Sounds like life in the Mage’s tower.” He continued reading to the others, “Anguish and torment held me fast, then I invoked the Lord by name, Lord, deliver, I pray.” He looked up and wondered if it had been written for him. Helga’s closed eyes showed that she had been pondering the passage. Edgar reflected her comforting calmness.

Ulrik’s quandary slowly dissipated. He knew what he had to do, not because of the Mage’s command but because of his father’s urgent plea, because of his love for and honor to his father.

“I have to go,” he quietly announced.

Edgar looked at him, bewildered. “Go where?”

Helga explained the charge laid upon Ulrik as simply she could, hoping Edgar would understand.

“Uley’s going away?”

The prince and the cook nodded.

“Edgar goes, too.”

“Edgar,” Ulrik stood up and walked around the table to the big man. “You can’t go. I don’t even know where I’m going or what I’m looking for. It could be dangerous.”

“Then Edgar keep his friend safe.”

“Edgar, I have no idea how long this will take . . . this is going to be far away from here. You’ll get tired, and I’m not strong enough to carry you.”

Edgar’s face lit up and he jumped away from the table, grabbed Ulrik with a practiced motion, and put the startled prince on his back. “See, Edgar can still carry Uley, like when he was little.”

“Edgar!” Put him down,” yelled Helga. The big man then grinned and laughed. Ulrik hung on his friend’s neck and laughed along with him.

“All right, all right, you can come along,” agreed Ulrik.

Leaning casually with one shoulder against the doorpost, Barty blocked the way to the stable. He idly toyed with the pair of dice in his hand, making them go click-clack, click-clack. When the prince tried to pass, he stuck out his leg hoping to cause a stumble. “Have a nice trip,” he sneered.

“That’s an old joke.” Ulrik said and stepped over Barty’s leg, fighting the temptation to kick it out of the way.

“I know. I thought it fit considering all the gossip I hear about you. You’re making many a tongue wag in the castle. From way down in the guard’s barracks through the servant’s quarters up to the donjon, ‘What’s the crown prince up to? We heard he’s been given some kind of mission, and on and on. I’m completely bored with it. No one wants to do anything but talk about you.”

“How would you know what everyone is talking about?”

Barty held up the dice to let the sunlight reflect off the polished ivory surfaces. “My two little friends here take me into all sorts of places. They’re like magic keys used to open all doors. Many like to play with me and my little friends. The worst luck for them; I loose bets only at my choosing.”

Ulrik looked at him, wondering how the two of them could be related.

Barty held the dice to his ears. “Do you hear? My little friends are calling. Time to fleece a few before noon.”

Ulrik continued to the stable without bothering about Barty’s plans. Here was another haven from the castle’s intrigues. The Mage and his minions avoided this stable the way they avoided the kitchen. The ceiling soared high into the air, far higher than a stable had any right to. Intricate stone tracery wove its way through the supporting pillars pulling the eye from one place to another and then another in exultation. The tracery framed open spaces that held remnants of pictures made of small, colorful tiles scarcely visible under the layers of grime. The shards of stained glass in the great round window on the east wall proclaimed another time and use for the stable. Nearly all the glass was broken from the window, leaving the wind and weather to enter unopposed, though enough glass remained to lure the prince into a story half-told, a story revealed through fragments of a face here, a hand there, the image of a lamb.

He climbed the ladder into the haymow, its clumsy construction a sharp contrast to the craftsmanship surrounding it. The mow had been hastily thrown into place by uncaring workers following orders when the building was turned into a stable. The mow looked slapdash, built of scavenged lumber and ill-suited to the grandeur of the ceiling, walls and window fragments. Ulrik crawled over the hay and sat at the enormous window’s base. An old toy soldier of his, carved by Harald, the chief archer, remained on the sill where he had placed it several months back. Toy soldiers then, and now . . .  Now he knew he had to give up his childish ways. Duty called him to make the journey for his father’s sake, but his heart cried out to stay in the safety and security of Helga’s kitchen. He picked up the toy. Harald had carved a bit of a pot-belly onto the soldier. Like me, thought the prince rubbing his plump stomach. Closer inspection also revealed a smooth face on the toy, unlike the real soldiers he knew with their proud beards and elegant mustaches. He put the toy back on the exact same spot on the sill, and descended the mow, knowing what he must do.

Edgar had been pestering Ulrik, “When are we going to go?” Edgar had packed his knapsack for the journey the moment he learned he would join the prince. With Helga’s help his bags were ready, but he kept taking out the clothes he needed until he had completely unpacked and was as unprepared as the prince.

In the safety of the kitchen Ulrik made his announcement, “Tomorrow. We must go tomorrow.”

“You mean to leave on your fourteenth birthday?” asked Helga, shocked at the suggestion. “But I was planning . . .”

“Go where?” Barty piped in as he stuck his nose around the corner. Since Ulrik’s meeting with the Mage, Barty had been spying as closely as he could.

“None of your business,” snapped Helga.

“What a pity I can’t go,” he sneered, taking the dice out of his pocket and carelessly shaking them in his hand so they rattled like bones. “I’m sure I could be a great help on such a journey- or should I say hopeless quest? I’m much smarter, braver, and far cleverer than you, Ulrik. I’d love to go, but someone has to hang around and take care of the place while the crown prince and his pet go gallivanting off to who knows where.”

The three stared at him. If they could have willed it, he would have disappeared.

“Don’t you have someplace to go?” Ulrik said to Barty.

“Come to think of it, I do,” he mused and then shook the dice next to his ear, pretending to listen, “What, my little friends? What? New soldiers in the guard-room . . . and with goods from the provinces…? And you say we should go and get acquainted? Good idea.” He slipped the dice back into his pocket. “You two have a nice trip,” he said as he left.

No sooner had he left than the Mage’s apprentice entered the kitchen, “My master, the Royal Mage and King’s Counselor, desires to speak with Crown Prince Ulrik.” He bowed and stepped back into the hallway. The Mage took his place in the doorway, keeping back from the threshold of the kitchen. His hood fully covered his head, and his hands remained tucked into his robe.

“I foresaw that I would find the prince in this place,” he hissed, the disdain dripping from each extended “s” sound.

Helga grabbed the rolling pin and stood between him and the prince. “What do the likes of you want with him?”

“Be careful how you speak to the King’s Counselor,” said the Mage.

“And you just try to take a step into my kitchen.”

The Mage took a step back, pulled his hand from his robe and took out a leather cylinder tied with a thong and sealed with wax. He handed it to the apprentice and gestured for him to give it to Ulrik. Fearfully, the apprentice crossed the kitchen threshold and slipped by Helga. He kept his face towards her, and set the cylinder on the table, then scuttled back to his place by the Mage.

The Mage began to speak: “The portents all speak the same message to me. The time to go is now. They tell me you must go beyond the great desert. They told me to give you that,” he pointed to the leather object. “It was in the royal archives.”

The Mage continued, “I sought you out, Prince Ulrik, to offer my special help but I see you already have your own counselor though I wonder what wisdom might be found in the scullery.” With these words, the Mage disappeared from the doorway. The apprentice hesitated, glancing around the kitchen. Ulrik grabbed a fresh sweet roll from the table, whispered, “Boy, catch,” and tossed the roll to him. One-handedly he caught it, slipped it into his sleeve, and ran after the Mage.

“He’d been eyeing those rolls the whole time,” said the prince. “Who knows what the Mage gives him to eat.”

Helga caught Edgar picking up the cylinder “Put it down! You don’t know what could be inside.”

Edgar dropped it as if it were a burning coal. Ulrik stepped forward to examine it. “It has the royal seal.” He picked it up and tried to work the knot. The ancient wax crumbled off in shards as the knot unfolded into strands. His hands slipped and it fell open onto the table, unrolling to reveal the parchment inside. The three leaned over and scrutinized it.

“It’s a map,” said Edgar.

“Why yes, Edgar, you’re right, it’s a map but I’m not sure what it’s for,” said Ulrik.

“I wouldn’t trust anything coming from that Mage character,” snorted Helga. “Not much on it, for a map.”

“The Mage didn’t make this map,” Ulrik said as he examined the parchment. “Look at the beauty of these letters; they look like little pictures.” He pointed to a capital D in the shape of a dragon. “The Mage can’t create anything of beauty and truth. And look here,” he pointed to the signature on the bottom right corner. ‘Maps by Nagel.’ I wonder who he is? I’ll bring the map even though I don’t know what it all means. Like these words, ‘Sleepers Awake.’ What could they ever mean?” They were written across a section of the map not too far off the road running from the castle to the distant shore, a place beyond his father’s domain.