Stephen King - The Eyes of the Dragon

“What about the rest of your team?” Ben asked.

“I should open the shed over there”-she pointed at it-"and leave my bedroll in it. If I show them where it is and then free them, they’ll be able to forage for their own food-rabbits and such-and they’ll also know where to come for shelter.”

“They won’t follow us?”

“Not if they’re told not to.”

“You can do that?” He looked at her with some awe.

“No,” Naomi said matter-of-factly. “I don’t speak Dog. Nor does Frisky speak Human, but she understands it. If I tell Frisky, she’ll tell the others. They’ll hunt what they need, but they won’t range far enough to lose the scent of my bedroll, not with the storm coming. And when it starts, they’ll go to shelter. It won’t matter if their bellies are hungry or full.”

“And if we had something that belonged to this boy Dennis, you really believe Frisky could track him?”

“Aye.”

Ben looked at her long and thoughtfully. Dennis had left this farm on Tuesday; it was now Sunday. He didn’t believe any scent could last that long. But there was something in the house which would bear Dennis’s scent, and perhaps even a fool’s errand would be better than only sitting here. It was the pointless sitting more than anything else that grated on him, the hours ahead when things of grave importance might be happening elsewhere, while they sat and twiddled their thumbs here. Under other circumstances, the possibility of being snowbound with a girl as beautiful as Naomi would have delighted him, but not while a kingdom might be won and lost twenty miles to the east… and his best friend might be living or dying with only that confounded butler to help him.

“Well?” she asked eagerly. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s crazy,” he said, “but worth a try.”

She grinned. “Do we have something with his scent strong upon it?”

“We do,” he said, getting up. “Bring your dog in, Naomi, and lead her upstairs. To the attic.”

Although most humans don’t know it, scents are like colors to dogs. Faint scents have faint colors, like pastels washed out by time. Clear scents have clear colors. Some dogs have weak noses, and they read scents the way humans with poor eyes see colors, believing this delicate blue may actually be a gray, or that dark brown may actually be a black. Frisky’s nose, on the other hand, was like the eyesight of a man with the gaze of a hawk, and the scent in the attic where Dennis had slept was very strong and very clear (it may have helped that Dennis had been some days without a bath). Frisky sniffed the hay, then sniffed the blanket THE GIRL held for her. She scented Arlen upon it, but disregarded the scent; it was weaker, and not at all the scent she had found on the hay. Arlen’s smell was lemony and tired, and Frisky knew at once that it was the smell of an old man. Dennis’s smell was more exciting and vital. To Frisky’s nose, it was the electric blue of a summer lightning stroke.

She barked to show that she knew this smell and had put it safely away in her library of scents.

“All right, good girl,” THE TALL-BOY said. “Can you follow it.

“She’ll follow it,” THE GIRL said confidently. “Let’s g0.”

“It’ll be dark in an hour.”

“That’s SO,” THE GIRL said, and then grinned. When THE GIRL grinned that way, Frisky thought her heart might just burst with love of her. “But it isn’t her eyes that we want, is it?”

THE TALL-BOY smiled. “I guess not,” he said. “You know, I must be crazy, but I think we’re going to pick up these cards and play them.”

“Course we are,” she said. “Come on, Ben. Let’s use what little daylight’s left-it’ll be dark soon enough.”

Frisky, her nose full of that bright-blue scent, barked eagerly.

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, Dennis stood anxiously, drawn back into the deepest shadow he could find, staring at the single square of pale-yellow light at the top of the Needle, -Peter’s candle.

Peter, of course, knew nothing of Dennis’s vigil-he was filled with the wonder of the idea that, live or die, this would be the last meal he would ever eat in this damned prison cell. It was just more tough, salty meat, half-rotted potatoes, and watery ale, but he would eat it all. For the last three weeks he had eaten little and had spent all the waking time he did not spend working at the tiny loom exercising, readying his body. Today, however, he had eaten everything brought to him. He would need all his strength tonight.

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 pinned inside the napkin.

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 planned to make his try to escape, seemed an omen. But of what?

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 unpinned the note (his hands were trembling so badly he pricked himself again) and unfolded it. It was written closely on both sides in letters which were rusty and a bit childish, but readable enough. His glance went first to the signature… and his eyes widened. The note was signed Dennis-your Friend and Servant For-Ever.

“Dennis?” Peter muttered, so flabbergasted he was unaware that he had whispered aloud. “Dennis?”

He turned back then, and the letter’s opening was enough to shock his heartbeat into a fast drumroll. The salutation was My King.