Michael Sullivan - The Crown Tower

“But you said you had artifacts of my father’s to give me.”

“ An artifact to be precise. The last time I visited Danbury he gave me instructions that I should give it to you.”

Judging by the state of the room, Hadrian wondered at the odds of finding this heirloom, assuming it was smaller than a dog. Looking up, he noticed an owl roosting on the second-story balcony rail, the random collection of boxes and chests, and the near-complete human skeleton that dangled from a Vasarian battle spear driven into the wall.

Arcadius smiled and pulled a chain with an amulet from around his neck. Hadrian knew the medallion. His father had worn it every day of his life, even when sleeping or bathing. The amulet was such an integral part of him that seeing it there was like looking at a finger severed from his hand. Whatever fantasies Hadrian might have held that his father still lived were snuffed out, and for an instant he saw the bloodied tiger again, taking its last breath, eyes still open and staring back with the single question: Why?

“Would you like to sit down?” Arcadius asked, his tone gentle. “I think there’s another chair in here. Should be five, in fact. I suppose you could just use my stool. I sit too much anyway.”

Hadrian wiped his eyes. “I’m fine.”

Arcadius offered the sock, but Hadrian shook his head.

“Did he speak of me?”

Arcadius, who had gotten to his feet, returned to his seat. He removed the necklace and placed it on a pile of clutter in front of Hadrian. “He told me of your leaving. Something about an argument between you two, but he didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t press.”

“I called him a coward. It was the worst thing I could think of, and the last thing I said to him.”

“I wouldn’t be too concerned. He’s been called worse.”

“Not by his son. Not by the one person he had left in the world.” Hadrian let his head hang over the desk, over the medallion. The circle of silver was just a bit larger than a coin and was comprised of a ring of twisted knots. “Where did he get this? Did my mother give it to him?”

“No, I suspect this medallion is an heirloom that has been handed down through generations. It is very precious. Your father asked me to tell you what his father had told him. That you should wear it always, never sell it, and give it to your son should you have one. This was the first part of what became his dying wish.”

Hadrian picked up the chain, letting the medallion swing from his fingers. “And the second?”

“We’ll get to that, but that’s enough for now. You’ve had a long trip and your clothes look wet. I suspect you’d like a chance to dry them, perhaps take a bath, have a tasty meal and a good night’s sleep in a warm bed. Sadly, I can only offer you three of the four … Tonight is meat pies.”

“Thank you. I am a bit…” His voice cracked and he could only shrug.

“I understand.” Arcadius looked across the room and shouted, “Bartholomew!”

The door to the office creaked open. “Sir?”

“Be a good lad and see that Hadrian gets a meal and a bed. I believe Vincent Quinn is away, so there should be a vacancy in the north wing dormitories.”

“Ah … certainly, but … ah … how did you know I was still here?”

“Magic.” The old wizard winked at Hadrian.

“Pickles!” Hadrian grinned upon seeing the boy.

Bartholomew led Hadrian up a flight of steps to the dormitory, a long room lined with a row of neatly made beds. All were empty except one. Hearing his name, the Vernes street urchin popped up and offered Hadrian his familiar smile.

“I have made it, good sir. Rushed as fast as I could, fearful I would miss you, but here I am and arriving in this wonderful place two days ahead of you.”

“I had some problems and spent some time in Colnora. You were lucky to have missed that barge.”

Hadrian found the boy’s hand and squeezed tight. They were nearly strangers, but also foreigners with a common history. Even if they had shared only a few minutes walking through a rat-infested city, at that moment, Pickles was Hadrian’s oldest and dearest friend.

“I must apologize again, good sir, for being arrested just as you needed me most.”

“You don’t need to apologize for that, and you can call me Hadrian.”

Pickles looked shocked. “I am your humble servant. I cannot call you by name.”

“Well, sir makes me uncomfortable-and people might think I’m impersonating a knight.”

Pickles wrinkled his forehead in contemplation. Then the smile returned. “Master Hadrian, then.”

Not what he wanted, but he could settle for that.

“This is an amazing place, Master Hadrian. Never have I seen anything like it. So clean. It does not smell at all of fish or horse droppings.”

Horses. Dancer . He’d forgotten all about her.

“I’ve got to find a place for my horse.”

“I know a place,” Pickles said proudly. “I saw the stable. I can take care of all your livery problems. Besides, I need to go down to drop off this book.”

Hadrian noticed a surprisingly large tome on the bed. “You can read?”

Pickles shook his head. “Oh no, of course not, but this book has many pictures. The professor said I could look through it to pass the time while I waited for you to arrive as long as I returned it to the library in the east building where he had borrowed it from. I will drop it off and then see to your horse. Where is it that you left this animal?”

“I’ll show you.”

“You do not need to. I am your happy servant. You can stay here and be most lazy.”

Hadrian looked at the stark room that reminded him of too many barracks. “That’s okay, I’ve been most lazy enough.”

The sun, having disappeared behind the hills, left only an afterglow in the sky. Across the common a boy with a ladder was busy lighting lamps. Walking beside Hadrian, Pickles struggled with the book, which was as cumbersome as a prize pumpkin. The boy grunted as he shifted the weight from arm to arm.

“Can I help with that?” Hadrian asked.

“Oh no!” Pickles burst out as he sped up, walking faster and faster to prove he had everything under control, or maybe just to reach his destination before his arms gave out.

Next to Glen Hall was a smaller building. Hadrian finally noticed that there were indeed different sizes, although still imposing. This one was filled with cubicles, desks, large tables, and chairs in disarray. The library was not very large, but the walls were devoted entirely to shelves on which were books. Far fewer books than Hadrian would have expected. Many of the shelves had dead space, and he guessed the books that belonged there were on loan to students. Pickles let his book slap down on the central table where it landed with an echoing thud.

“There!” he said with a dramatic expulsion of air and collapsed over the table, as if suffering from a mortal blow. “I am not cut out for being a scholar.” He slowly rose, breathing hard. “I do not see how you do it. I understand swords are heavy.”

“Bad swords are.”

“There are good and bad swords?”

“Just like people.”

“Really?” Pickles appeared unconvinced.

“Bad swords are just uselessly heavy, whereas well-made ones are quite light and well balanced.”

“I still doubt I could lift one.”

Hadrian drew his short sword and held out the pommel to him.

Pickles eyed the weapon skeptically. “This does not look like a good sword. Pardon me for saying so, Master Hadrian, but it looks very tired.”

“Looks are often deceiving.”

Pickles’s big smile grew even larger.

The boy reached out and wrapped both hands around the grip, grimacing with anticipation. Then Hadrian let go, and the blade swept up so sharply that Pickles nearly fell backward.