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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, De
Peter, of course, knew nothing of De
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 pi
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 pla
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 unpi
“De
He turned back then, and the letter’s opening was enough to shock his heartbeat into a fast drumroll. The salutation was My King.
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My King,
As you may Noe, for the last 5 Yeres I have Buttled in Service to your Brother, Thomas. In just this last Week I have found out that You did not Murther you Father Roland the Good. I Noe who Did, and Thomas Noes as Well. You would Noe the name of this Black Killer if I dared to Rite it, but I do Not. I went to Peyna. Peyna has gone to join the Exiles with his Butler, Orlon. He has commanded I come to the Castle, and Rite to you this note. Peyna says that the Exiles may soon become Rebels and this must not Be. He thinks you may have some sort of Plan, but what he Noes Not. He commands that I be of Service to You, and my Da commanded it too, before He Dyed, and my Heart commands it, for our Famly has always served the King and you are the Right King. If you have a Plan, I will aid you in Any Way I can, even if it means my Death. As you read this, I am across the Platza in the shadows looking at the Needle where you are Pent Up. If you have a Plan, come I pray You and stand at the Window. If You have something on which You can rite, then throe down a Note and I will try to retreeve It late this Night. Wave twyce if you will try this idea.
Your friend Ben is with the Exiles. Peyna said He would send Him. I Noe were He (Ben) will be. If You say I should fetch Him (Ben) I can, in a Day. Or perhaps Two if there is Snoe. I Noe that throwing down a Note might be Riskee, but I feel Time is short. Peyna feels the Same Way. I will be Watching and Praying.
De
Your Friend and Servant For-Ever
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It was a long time before Peter could put his whirling thoughts in order. His mind kept circling back to one question: What had De
Little by little he came to realize that it didn’t matter-De
Peyna. De
Then what was Peter to do?
Part of him-a very large part-wanted to go ahead just as he had pla
You would Noe the name of this Black Killer if I dared to rite It, but I do Not. Peter knew just the same, of course, and it was that more than anything else that convinced him De
Was a day too long to wait?
Perhaps. Perhaps not.
Peter was torn in an agony of indecision. Ben… Thomas… Flagg… Peyna… De
In the end, it was the appearance of the note itself-not what was in it-that persuaded him. For it to come this way, pi
Could De
And suddenly, in a flash of light, an idea came to him.
Peter had been sitting on his bed, hunched over the note, his brows furrowed. Now he straightened up, his eyes alight.
His eyes fell on the note again.
If You have something on which You can rite, then throe down a Note and I will try to retreeve It late this Night.
Yes, of course, he had something to write on. Not the napkin itself, because it might be missed. Not De