sound of shouting:“Where’s the boy?” “Through there—down the steps!”“Bring torches!”
Too late Patch realized that Basilus had turned and was rushing back down the stairs. He pressed himself against the wall, but the steward’s feet caught on his as he passed. Patch heard Basilus yelp as he fell, an ugly thud of something hard striking stone, a sound like a tree branch snapping under the weight of snow, and the harsh music of the meat hook clattering down the rest of the steps.
A flickering orange light filled the stairway. Addison came first, with a torch in one hand and his sword in the other. Three soldiers followed, peering over his shoulder.
“I found Basilus, my lord,” Patch said. For a momenthe’d forgotten the pain where the hook had sliced his back. Now it blossomed again, much greater, and he felt a spreading warmth and dampness.
Addison walked past him, to the foot of the stairs where Basilus was crumpled in a heap. He knelt by the steward and brought the torch close.
“It would have been well had you kept him alive for us to question,” Addison said.
a thousand enemies at my gate than one hidden in my house,” said Milo, shaking his head. He stood by the roaring fire, with a hand on old Will Sweeting’s shoulder and his back to the rest of the people in the great hall.
Patch hovered by the door. Many of the knights were gathered here again. They sorted themselves into groups and spoke in hushed tones. Addison sat away from the others. His sword was still drawn, and he leaned on it, brooding, with the hilt propping up his chin and the tip slowly turning, grinding on the floor.
The men began to notice Patch. Faces turned his way, curious or suspicious or resentful. There was Mannon, but trying to meet his eye was like staring into the sun.
It seemed to Patch like he couldn’t get anything right. Yes, he’d found the traitor. But now the traitor was dead and could answer no questions. What did Basilus have to do with the trolls? What was the hunter about to say,that he had to be so cruelly silenced? Was only Basilus involved, or were there others?
An hour before, the queen had brought Patch a physician who washed the cut on his back, smeared it with an ointment that naturally made the pain ten times worse, and wound a cloth around him. She hovered nearby while the physician worked, but Patch was afraid to look her way. If he’d only listened to her and not gone down the stairs by himself, Basilus might have been captured alive.
Would
have been captured alive. But he was too anxious to help, too eager for redemption.
Cecilia did not scold him, though. When the physician was done, she only patted his hand and said, “Go and tell them now, Patch. This cannot wait. I will be listening.”
Now Patch looked around the room at the important men. He glanced at the long curtain behind the table and pictured the queen in her hidden chair. It made what he was about to do a little easier.
He walked toward the king. The conversations withered, and heads swiveled to track him as he approached the hearth. “Your Majesty,” he said. Milo turned and stared at him. The friendly glint in the king’s eye was gone; his youthful face looked ten years older.
The king’s eyebrows crinkled together as he seemed to remember something. He patted his pocket and reached in to pull out a small folded parchment. He opened it and read it. Patch recognized the note that the page had delivered just before the hunter was poisoned, beforeBasilus broke his neck on the stairs. It was Cecilia’s note, the one Patch had watched her write:“Let the apprentice speak, my love. And listen well.” Milo sniffed, smiled briefly, and tossed the note into the fire.
“Well,” the king said. “What do you have to say?”
Without mentioning the queen, Patch told the court what they had learned from Simon Oddfellow: that the trolls were planning to tear Dartham to pieces, that Hurgoth seemed to be in charge, and that
Too late Patch realized that Basilus had turned and was rushing back down the stairs. He pressed himself against the wall, but the steward’s feet caught on his as he passed. Patch heard Basilus yelp as he fell, an ugly thud of something hard striking stone, a sound like a tree branch snapping under the weight of snow, and the harsh music of the meat hook clattering down the rest of the steps.
A flickering orange light filled the stairway. Addison came first, with a torch in one hand and his sword in the other. Three soldiers followed, peering over his shoulder.
“I found Basilus, my lord,” Patch said. For a momenthe’d forgotten the pain where the hook had sliced his back. Now it blossomed again, much greater, and he felt a spreading warmth and dampness.
Addison walked past him, to the foot of the stairs where Basilus was crumpled in a heap. He knelt by the steward and brought the torch close.
“It would have been well had you kept him alive for us to question,” Addison said.
a thousand enemies at my gate than one hidden in my house,” said Milo, shaking his head. He stood by the roaring fire, with a hand on old Will Sweeting’s shoulder and his back to the rest of the people in the great hall.
Patch hovered by the door. Many of the knights were gathered here again. They sorted themselves into groups and spoke in hushed tones. Addison sat away from the others. His sword was still drawn, and he leaned on it, brooding, with the hilt propping up his chin and the tip slowly turning, grinding on the floor.
The men began to notice Patch. Faces turned his way, curious or suspicious or resentful. There was Mannon, but trying to meet his eye was like staring into the sun.
It seemed to Patch like he couldn’t get anything right. Yes, he’d found the traitor. But now the traitor was dead and could answer no questions. What did Basilus have to do with the trolls? What was the hunter about to say,that he had to be so cruelly silenced? Was only Basilus involved, or were there others?
An hour before, the queen had brought Patch a physician who washed the cut on his back, smeared it with an ointment that naturally made the pain ten times worse, and wound a cloth around him. She hovered nearby while the physician worked, but Patch was afraid to look her way. If he’d only listened to her and not gone down the stairs by himself, Basilus might have been captured alive.
Would
have been captured alive. But he was too anxious to help, too eager for redemption.
Cecilia did not scold him, though. When the physician was done, she only patted his hand and said, “Go and tell them now, Patch. This cannot wait. I will be listening.”
Now Patch looked around the room at the important men. He glanced at the long curtain behind the table and pictured the queen in her hidden chair. It made what he was about to do a little easier.
He walked toward the king. The conversations withered, and heads swiveled to track him as he approached the hearth. “Your Majesty,” he said. Milo turned and stared at him. The friendly glint in the king’s eye was gone; his youthful face looked ten years older.
The king’s eyebrows crinkled together as he seemed to remember something. He patted his pocket and reached in to pull out a small folded parchment. He opened it and read it. Patch recognized the note that the page had delivered just before the hunter was poisoned, beforeBasilus broke his neck on the stairs. It was Cecilia’s note, the one Patch had watched her write:“Let the apprentice speak, my love. And listen well.” Milo sniffed, smiled briefly, and tossed the note into the fire.
“Well,” the king said. “What do you have to say?”
Without mentioning the queen, Patch told the court what they had learned from Simon Oddfellow: that the trolls were planning to tear Dartham to pieces, that Hurgoth seemed to be in charge, and that
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