They walk the halls of the palace, two sets of footfalls echoing loudly through the empty corridors. But the old man is lost in the past, listening to the sounds of gaiety and music, recalling the shrill giggle of a child playing tag with his father and mother through the halls of the palace.
I, too, remember that time. I was twenty when Prince Edmund was born. The palace teemed with life: aunts and uncles, cousins by birth and by marriage, courtiers — always agreeable and smiling and ready to laugh — council members bustling in and out with business, citizens presenting petitions or requesting judgments. I lived in the palace, serving my apprenticeship to the king’s necromancer, A studious youth, I spent far more time in the library than I did on the dance floor. But I must have absorbed more than I thought. Sometimes, in the sleep-half, I imagine I can still hear the music.
“Order,” the old king was saying. “It was all orderly, back then. Order was our heritage, order and peace. I don’t understand what happened. Why did it change? What brought the chaos, what brought the darkness?”
“We did, Father,” replies Edmund steadily. “We must have.”
He knows differently, of course. I’ve taught him better than that. But he will always go out of his way to avoid an argument with his father. Still, after all these years, striving desperately for love.
I follow them, my black slippers make no noise on the cold stone floors. Edmund knows I am with them. He glances back occasionally, as if relying on my strength. I gaze at him with fond pride, the pride I might have felt for my own son. Edmund and I are close, closer than many fathers and sons, closer than he is to his own father, although he won’t admit it. His parents were so deeply involved with each other, they had little time for the child their love created. I was the boy’s tutor and, over time, became the lonely youth’s friend, companion, adviser.
Now he is in his twenties, strong and handsome and virile. He will make a good king, I tell myself, and I repeat the words several times over, as if they were a talisman and would banish the shadow that lies over my heart.
At the end of the hallway stand giant, double doors, marked with symbols whose meanings have been forgotten, symbols that have, with time and progress, been partially obliterated. The old man waits, holding the lamp while his son, muscular shoulders straining, shoves aside the heavy metal bar that keeps the palace doors shut and locked.
The bar is a new addition. The old king frowns at it. Perhaps he is remembering a time, before Edmund was born, when there was no need for a physical barrier. Magic kept the doors shut then. Over the years, however, the magic was needed for other, more important tasks—such as survival.
His son pushes on the doors and they swing open. A blast of cold air blows out the gas lamp. The cold is bitter, fierce, penetrates the fur robes. It reminds the old king that, chill as is the palace, its walls and their magic offer some protection from the blood-freezing, bone-numbing darkness outside.
“Father, are you certain you’re up to this?” Edmund asks worriedly.
“Yes,” the old man snaps, although my guess is that he wouldn’t have gone if he’d been alone. “Don’t worry about me. If Baltazar has his way, we’ll all be out in this before long.”
Yes, he knows I’m near, knows I’m listening. He’s jealous of my influence over Edmund. All I can say is, Old man, you had your chance.
“Baltazar has found a route that takes us down through the tunnels, Father. I explained that to you before. The air will grow wanner, the deeper into the world we penetrate.”
“Found such a fool notion in a book, I suppose. No use lighting the damn thing,” the old king remarks, referring to the lamp. “Don’t waste your magic. I don’t need a light. Many and many are the times I’ve stood on this colonnade. I could walk it blindfolded.”
I can hear them moving through the darkness. I can almost see the king thrust aside Edmund’s proffered arm—the prince is dutiful and loving to a father who little deserves it—and stalk unhesitatingly through the doors. I stand in the hallway and try to ignore the cold biting at my face and hands, numbing my feet.