Stephen King - The Eyes of the Dragon

“But you will not try me.”

They all blinked and sat up straighter at this dry note of au-thority, but Yosef of the stables would not have been surprised by it; he had heard that tone in the boy’s voice before, when Peter was only a stripling.

“One of these other four will do that,” Peter continued. “I’ll not be tried by the man who will hold power in my place… a man who, by his look and manner, already feels in his heart that I have committed this terrible crime.”

Peyna felt himself flush.

“One of these four,” Peter reiterated, turning to the Great Lawyers. “Let four stones, three black and one white, be put in a cup. The one who draws the white stone shall preside at my trial. Do you agree?”

“My Lord, I do,” Peyna agreed slowly, hating the flush which even now wouldn’t leave his cheeks.

Again, Flagg had to raise a hand to his mouth to cover a small smile. And that, my little doomed Lord, is the only command you will ever give as King of Delain, he thought.

The meeting which began at three o’clock was over by quarter past the hour. Senates and parliaments may drone on for days and months before deciding a single issue-and often the issue is never decided at all in spite of all the talk-but when great things happen, they usually happen fast. And three hours later, as dark was coming down, something happened which made Peter realize that, mad as it seemed, he was going to be found guilty of this terrible crime.

He was escorted back to his apartments by unsmiling, silent guards. His meals, Peyna said, would be brought to him.

Supper was fetched by a burly Home Guardsman with a heavy stubble of beard on his face. He was holding a tray. On it were a glass of milk and a large, steaming bowl of stew. Peter stood up as the guardsman came in. He reached for the tray.

“Not yet, my Lord,” the guardsman said, the sneer in his voice apparent. “It needs seasoning, I think.” And with that he spat into the stew. Then, grinning, showing a mouthful of teeth and gaps like an ill-tended picket fence, he held the tray out. “Here.”

Peter made no motion to take it. He was utterly astonished.

“Why did you do that? Why did you spit in my stew?”

“Does a child who murders his father deserve any better, my

Lord?”

“No. But one who has not even been tried for the crime does,” Peter said. “Take that out and bring me a fresh tray. Bring it in fifteen minutes, or you’ll sleep tonight below Flagg in the dungeons.

The guardsman’s ugly sneer faltered for a moment and then returned. “I think not,” he said. He tilted the tray, first just a little, then more, then more. The glass and bowl shattered on the flagstones. Thick stew splattered in ropes.

“Lick it up,” the guardsman said. “Lick it up like the dog you are.

He turned to go. Peter, suddenly blazing, leaped forward and slapped the man. The sound of the blow rang in the room like a pistol shot.

With a bellow, the scruffy guardsman pulled out his shortsword.

Smiling humorlessly, Peter lifted his chin and bared his neck. “Go ahead,” he said. “A man who would spit in another man’s soup is perhaps also the sort of man who would cut an unarmed man’s throat. Go ahead. Pigs also do God’s bidding, I believe, and my shame and my grief are very great. If God wills me to live, I must, but if God wills me to die and has sent such a pig as you to do the killing, that is very well.”

The Home Guardsman’s anger melted into confusion. After a moment he sheathed his sword.

“I’ll not dirty my blade,” he said, but his words were almost a mumble, and he was not able to meet Peter’s eye.

“Bring me fresh food and drink,” Peter said quietly. “I don’t know who you have been talking to, guardsman, and I don’t care. I don’t know why you are so eager to condemn me for my father’s murder when no testimony has yet been heard, and I don’t care about that, either. But you will bring me fresh meat and drink, and a napkin to go with them, and you will do this before the clock strikes half past six, or I will ring for Peyna, and you will sleep below Flagg tonight. My guilt is not proved, Peyna is yet mine to command, and I swear what I say is true.”

During this the Home Guardsman grew paler and paler, be-cause he saw Peter did speak the truth. But this was not the only reason for his pallor. When his mates had told him the prince had been caught red-handed, he had believed them-he had wanted to believe them-but now he wondered. Peter did not look or speak like a guilty man.

“Yes, my Lord,” he said.

The soldier went out. A few moments later, the captain of the guard opened the door and looked in.

“I thought I heard some disturbance,” he said. His eye fell on the broken glass and crockery. “Has there been trouble here?”

“No trouble,” Peter said calmly. “I dropped the tray. The guardsman has gone to fetch me a fresh meal.”

The captain nodded and left.

Peter sat on his bed for the next ten minutes and thought deeply.

There was a brief knock on the door. “Come,” Peter said.

The bearded, gap-toothed guard came in with a fresh tray. “My Lord, I wish to apologize,” he said with awkward stiffness. “I’ve never behaved so in my whole life, and I don’t know what came over me. For my life I do not. I-”

Peter waved it away. He felt very tired. “Do the others feel as you do? The other guards?”

“My Lord,” the guardsman said, carefully setting the tray on Peter’s desk, “I’m not sure I still feel the way I did.”

“But do the others feel that I am guilty?”

There was a long pause, and then the soldier nodded.

“And is there some one reason they tell against me most of all?”

“They speak of a mouse that burned… they say you wept when Peyna confronted you…”

Peter nodded grimly. Yes. Weeping had been a bad mistake, but he hadn’t been able to help it… and it was done.

“But most of all they only say you were caught, that you wanted to be King, that it must be so.”

“That I wanted to be King and so it must be so,” Peter echoed.

“Yes, my Lord.” The guardsman stood looking at Peter miser-ably.

“Thank you. Go now, please.”

“My Lord, I apologize-”

“Your apology is accepted. Please go. I need to think.”

Looking as if he wished he had never been born, the Home Guardsman stepped out the door and closed it behind him.

Peter spread his napkin over his knees but didn’t eat. Any hunger he might have felt earlier was now gone. He plucked at the napkin and thought of his mother. He was glad-very glad indeed-that she wasn’t alive to see this, to see what he had come to. All of his life he had been a lucky boy, a blessed boy, a boy to whom, it sometimes seemed, no bad luck ever came. Now it seemed that all the bad luck which should have been his over the years had only been stored up to be paid at once, and with sixteen years of interest.

But most of all they say you wanted to be King and it must be so.

In some deep way he understood. They wanted a good King they could love. But they also wanted to know they had been saved by only a hair’s breadth from a bad one. They wanted blackness and secrets; they wanted their fearful tale of rotten royalty. God only knew why. They say you wanted to be King, they say it must be so.

Peyna believes it, Peter thought, and that guardsman believed it; they will all believe it. This is not a nightmare. I have been accused of my father’s murder, and not all my good behavior and my obvious love for him will dismiss the charge. And part of them wants to believe I did it.

Peter carefully refolded his napkin and laid it over the top of the fresh bowl of stew. He could not eat.