Splinter Of The Mind's Eye

"You have reservations," the old man said. "The Crown can tell if you're not wholly committed to people and empire."

"No," Haroun said. "I don't trust you."

Which was true. But the old man was right, too. Haroun faced a tough decision. Was he prepared to pay the dreadful price demanded of a king in exile? He had been too busy staying alive to face that question.

"A king must be responsible," the old man said. "He is his people and kingdom. Kings are made to put the burden upon."

Not the best argument to sway a wavering youth, surely.

Haroun surrendered. Not to that old man's dream, but to his own. To a dream his father and Megelin Radetic had shaped.

He acknowledged himself King in Hammad al Nakir.

It meant guerrilla camps, grim deeds and murder done to little apparent purpose, but always with a hope that he would be moving toward peace, unity and restoration.

The vision both depressed and excited him.

He lifted the crown again. This time it rose as lightly as a wisp of cotton.

"It fits!" Imp-Child squealed, and danced a wild jig.

Haroun snugged the crown upon his head. It bore down so hard he staggered. It suddenly became as light as a silver circlet, then as tenuous as a forgotten obligation.

He had a feeling it would permit no forgetting. He had sold his freedom for a dream.

The old man said, "All men who have an interest in the affairs of Hammad al Nakir, be they friend or foe, now know that a King has been crowned for Ilkazar."

"The King Without a Throne," Imp-Child intoned. "The Lord in Shadow."

Haroun felt the knowledge of himself leak into a hundred minds. He felt the rage swell in El Murid and his captains, felt the elation blossom in Royalist commanders riding hard with despair ru

The moment faded. The contact died.

"You refused Ashkerion," the old man said. "Beware, then. Turn your back on no man. Choose your successor wisely, and before you yourself depart this pale. Otherwise the Crown will go down with you, and be forgotten again. And I will be recalled from the darkness, to await another Candidate."

Haroun glanced at the old bronze sword. He reached—then drew back. As if sensing final rejection, the blade disappeared. Eyes wide, Haroun turned to the old man.

The alleged son of Ethrian the Wise had vanished too. Only dusty bones sat on the chalcedony throne.

Imp-Child considered him gravely. "Thank you. For the old man's freedom. For mine. Take your people away now. Your pursuers won't see you go."

There was a flash and a pop. When Haroun's senses cleared he found himself alone with bones and dust and three empty pillows.

A hint of dawn rosed the sills of the windows. For a moment he wondered if his visit hadn't been a hallucination.

But no. It had been real. He had healed. He wore a ragged ermine mantle, which he removed. And he felt driven to reclaim the usurped throne he'd never seen.

It was a need he would do anything to fulfill.

He went down dusty stairs and out a doorway which disappeared behind him. Looking north, he saw the dawn-tinted, snow-capped peaks of the Kapenrung Mountains. One day. Maybe two. He surveyed his companions. Bragi, the boys and all the animals were in a deep sleep beside a pool of water. They all looked healthier than when last he had seen them.

On a distant ridgeline a band of horsemen paused to study the land ahead, then stumbled forward along a trail which had no end.

"Wake up, Bragi. Time to get moving."

The old man stepped from behind the chalcedony throne. He carried a huge cornucopia. He stuffed its bell with pillows, bones and such. He muttered to himself while he worked.

"The stage is set. The struggle will last a generation."

He whipped around the throne, dragged a squawking Imp-Child from hiding. "Crafty little wretch. Thought I'd forget you, eh?" He booted the imp into the horn's bell. It tried to scramble out. He grunted as he strained to overcome it. "In, damn it! In!" The cherub squealed piteously and popped out of sight.

The old man leaned against the windowsill and watched the fugitives straggle away. He chuckled malevolently. "Now for Nassef," he said, and crooked a finger at the riders in the hills.

"What happened?" Bragi asked. "It seemed like I dreamed for days."

"I'm not sure," Haroun replied. He told what he could recall. "But I don't know if it was real. I already feel tired again."

They paused atop a ridgeline and looked back. There was no sign of a watchtower.

Haroun shrugged. "Real or not, we have to go on." He seemed to feel a heavy weight atop his head. He glared at the mountains before them, started forward, grimly determined.