The Black Beast by Nancy Springer Page B

throat. The captain stood almost a head above him.
    â€œI beg pardon, my lord,” he said to me. “They told me I could not see you, but my business could not wait.” His voice was clean and courteous, like his looks, but there was nothing crawling about it, no anxious entreaty. He is a prince, I thought, and I longed to go to him and embrace him. Instead I kept my place and spoke gruffly through my beard.
    â€œLet that so-called captain of mine go,” I said.
    He did not move. “Your word, my lord, that I will not be harmed.”
    I nodded, waving the other guards away. Frain loosened his grip, and Wayte bowed and left without a word, his face angry and white. The fellow was expecting my wrath; he did not know the joy he had brought me.
    â€œPrince Frain,” I asked as collectedly as I could, “what brings you here?”
    He whistled softly. “I had not expected, my lord, that you would recognize me! Have you heard of the events in Melior, then?”
    â€œNo, I have had no news from Melior. I know your face, that is all. What has happened to bring you here with your fine linen half torn from your back?”
    He glanced down at himself ruefully. “Your guards would never have admitted such a vagabond. Have I your lordship’s leave to seat myself?”
    â€œOf course, of course!” I exclaimed hastily, suddenly aware of the poor account I was giving of myself. I was in a lethargy of despair from Mela’s illness, roughly dressed, scarcely washed or combed, and now scant in courtesy. I bustled to clear a space on my cluttered couch. “I beg your pardon. Please sit and tell me what news you will.”
    Such a tale he told me. Murder, and a desperate ride into Acheron itself—Acheron, where no sane man will set foot. Then a lake on top of a mountain, forsooth, and a goddess walking barefoot like a peasant wench, and a strange and ominous black beast. I gaped in amazement, but Frain’s voice was so careful and modest that I believed every word he told me. At last he explained his errand. “Tirell hopes—no, expects—that you will help us overthrow Melior. He did not wish to come here himself, for he is certain that Abas has the Boda out in search of him. So he sent me to ask you to come to him.”
    â€œHe is mad, you have said,” I remarked dryly.
    â€œAy, so he is. Though perhaps”—Frain cocked a clear eye at me—“not in that regard.”
    â€œHow is he mad, then?”
    Frain sighed, thinking, and for the first time I saw real pain in his fine brown eyes; he had kept away from emotion before. “He has taken his love and grief,” Frain said slowly, “and turned it all to hard hate and vengeance with a cutting edge. If he could weep it would be the greatest of blessings, I think, but he hardly moves or speaks except for vengeance. There is no human warmth in him these days, not toward any being of human kind. When he eats I think he does not taste the food; he tastes only vengeance. And I cannot say what he sees before his eyes.”
    â€œBut he fends for himself well enough day to day?” I asked.
    â€œAll too well,” he wryly agreed.
    â€œAnd you, Prince Frain—” How I yearned to call him Frain, my son. But I would not do that. Long silence is not lightly to be broken.
    â€œYou need not call me prince,” he put in. “I have never been ‘princed’ much. Tirell is the prince in Melior.”
    â€œAnd you, Frain,” I said softly. “Do you accord with Prince Tirell in this bid for the throne?”
    â€œI have followed him since I was old enough to walk.”
    â€œAnd now that you are old enough to think,” I returned sharply, “will you follow a madman?”
    â€œThinking is the least of it,” Frain replied slowly. “To be sure, he is brave, and comely, and honorable in his way, and there is vision in him, perhaps even some wisdom.