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Flagg had come back from his trip into the north with a bit of a fever, a heavy cold, and a troubled mind.
Something wrong, something wrong. The very stones of the castle seemed to whisper it to him… but Flagg was damned if he knew what it was. All he knew for sure was that unknown “something wrong” had sharp teeth. It felt like a ferret ru
Because the rebels should have been there!
They hadn’t been, and Flagg hated to be fooled. Worse, he hated feeling that he might have made a mistake. If he had made a mistake about where the rebels were to be found, then perhaps he had made mistakes about other things. What other things? He didn’t know. But his dreams were bad. That small, bad tempered animal ran around in his head, worrying him, insisting that he had forgotten things, that other things were going on behind his back. It raced, it gnawed, it ruined his sleep. Flagg had medicines that would rid him of his cold, but none that would touch that growing ferret in his brain.
What could possibly be wrong?
He asked himself this question over and over again, and in truth it seemed-on the surface, at least-that nothing could be. For many centuries, the old dark chaos inside him had hated the love and light and order of Delain, and he had worked hard to destroy all that-to knock it down as that last cold gust of storm had knocked down the Church of the Great Gods. Always, something had interfered with his plans-a Kyla the Good, a Sasha, someone, something. But now he saw no possible inter-ference, no matter where he looked. Thomas was totally his creature; if Flagg told him to step off the highest parapet of the castle, the fool would want to know only at which o’clock he should do it. The farmers were groaning under the weight of the killing taxes Flagg had persuaded Thomas to impose.
Yosef had told Peter there was a breaking strain on people as well as on ropes and chains, and so there is-the farmers and the merchants of Delain had nearly reached theirs. The rope by which the great blocks of taxes are attached to any citizenry is simple loyalty-loyalty to King, to country, to government. Flagg knew that if he made the tax-blocks big enough, all the ropes would snap, and the stupid oxen-for that was really how he saw the people of Delain-would stampede, knocking down everything in their path. The first of the oxen had already broken free and had gathered in the north. They called themselves exiles now, but Flagg knew they would call themselves rebels soon enough. Peyna had been driven away and Peter was locked in the Needle.
So what could be wrong?
Nothing! Damn it, nothing!
But the ferret ran and squirmed and gnawed and twisted. Many times over the last three or four weeks he had awakened in a cold sweat, not because of his recurring fever but because he had had some horrible dream. What was the substance of this dream? He could never remember. He only knew that he woke from it with his left hand pressed to his left eye, as if he had been wounded there-and that eye would burn, although he could find nothing wrong with it.
113
On this night, Flagg awoke with his dream fresh in his mind, because he was awakened before it was over. It was, of course, the fall of the Church of the Great Gods which woke him.
“Huh!” Flagg cried, sitting bolt upright in his chair. His eyes were wide and staring, his white cheeks damp and shiny with sweat.
“Disaster!” one of the parrot’s heads screamed.
“Fire, flood, and escape!” the other screamed.
Escape, Flagg thought. Yes-that’s what’s been on my mind all this time, that’s what’s been gnawing at me.
He looked down at his hands and saw that they were trem-bling. This infuriated him, and he sprang out of his chair.
“He means to escape,” he muttered, ru
“Insane!” one of the parrot heads shrieked.
“Agony!” the other shrieked back.
“Will you shut up and let me think!” Flagg howled. He seized a jar filled with murky brown fluid from a nearby table and threw it at the parrot’s cage. It struck and shattered; there was a flash of bright, heatless light. The parrot’s two heads squawked in terror; it fell off its perch and lay stu
Flagg began to pace rapidly back and forth. His teeth were bared. His hands worked together restlessly, the fingers of one warring with the fingers of the other. His boots struck up green-ish sparks from the niter-caked stones of his laboratory floor; these sparks smelled like summer lightning.
How? When? Who helped?
He could not remember. Already the dream was fading. But…
“I have to know!” he whispered. “I have to know!”
Because it would be soon; he sensed that much. It would be very, very soon.
He found his keyring and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. He took out a box made of finely carved ironwood, opened it, and drew out a leather bag. He opened the bag’s drawstring top and carefully took out a chunk of rock that seemed to glow with its own i
He circled his room, turning down the lamps and capping the candles. Soon his apartment was in absolute darkness. Dark or not, Flagg returned to his desk with quick confidence, passing easily around objects that you or I would have barked our shins on or fallen over. The dark was nothing to the King’s magician; he liked the dark, and he could see in it like a cat.
He sat down and touched the stone. He slipped his palms down its sides, feeling its ragged edges and angles.
“Show me,” he murmured. “This is my command.”
At first, nothing. Then, little by little, the crystal began to glow from within. There was only a tiny light at first, diffuse and pallid. Flagg touched the crystal again, this time with the tips of his fingers. It had grown warm.
“Show me Peter. This is my command. Show me the whelp that dares put himself in my way, and show me what he plans to do.”
The light grew brighter… brighter… brighter. Eyes glit-tering, cruel thin lips parted to show his teeth, Flagg bent over his crystal. Now Peter, Ben, De
The crystal’s milky cast suddenly disappeared, drawing into the brightening glow. Now Flagg could see into its heart. His eyes widened… then narrowed in bewilderment.
It was Sasha, very pregnant, sitting at a little boy’s bed. The little boy was holding a slate. On it were written two words: GOD and DOG.
Impatiently, Flagg passed his hands over the crystal, which now gave off waves of heat.
“Show me what I need to know! This is my command!”
The crystal cleared again.
It was Peter, playing with his dead mother’s dollhouse, pretending the house and the family inside were being attacked by Indians… or dragons… or some foolish thing. The old King stood in the corner, watching his son, wanting to join in…
“Bah!” Flagg cried, waving his hands over the crystal again. “Why do you show me these old, meaningless stories? I need to know how he plans to escape… and when! Now show me! This is my command!”