Miles would have told him it wasn’t worth it. Miles would have thrown up his hands and gone to civilization, to Soldier Field and elevators and taxis. His associates in the profession would have done the same.
Annie would not. Annie would have told him to tough it out and she would have stood with him. But Annie was dead.
He tightened his jaw, frowning. When he got right down to it, he was dead, too, if he gave it up now and went back. That was why he had taken the gamble in the first place and come — to give himself back his life. He still thought he could do that here; he still believed that Landover could be his home. Besides, money was only money…
But a million dollars? He could hear Miles’ exclamation of disbelief. He could see Miles throwing up his hands in disgust.
He was surprised to discover that he was smiling at the idea.
It was exactly noon when the mist and trees parted almost without warning, and the little company entered a clearing bright with sunshine, its grasses a glimmer of green, gold, and crimson. Bonnie Blues grew all about the edges of the clearing, evenly spaced and perfectly formed, and only those that nestled close against the forest beyond showed signs of the wilt that Ben had observed on his journey in. Burnished timbers of white oak formed a dais and throne at the clearing’s center. Polished silver stanchions were anchored at the comers of the dais, and in their holders were tall white candles, their wicks new. Flags of varying colors and insignia lifted from behind the dais, and all about were white velvet kneeling pads and rests.
Questor’s arm swept across the sunlit clearing. “This is the Heart, High Lord,” he said softly. “Here you shall be crowned King of Landover.”
Ben stared at the gleaming oak and silver of the throne and dais, the flags and candles, and the clipped grasses and Bonnie Blues. “It shows nothing of the Tarnish, Questor. It all looks as if it were… new.”
“The Tarnish has not yet reached the Heart, High Lord. The magic is strongest here. Come.”
They crossed in silence, slipping between the lines of velvet kneeling pads and armrests to where the throne and dais waited at the clearing’s center. Fragrant smells filled the warm midday air, and the colors of the grasses and trees seemed to shimmer and mix with liquid ease. Ben felt a sense of peace and reverence within the clearing that reminded him of the church sanctuary on Sunday morning when he had been brought to it as a boy. He was surprised to discover that he still remembered.
They reached the dais and stopped. Ben glanced slowly about. The Heart was all but deserted. A few worn-looking herdsmen and farmers, with their wives and children in tow, stood hesitantly at the edges of the clearing, whispering together and looking uncertainly at Ben. Half a dozen hunters in woodsman’s garb clustered in a knot in the shadows of the forest, where the sunlight did not reach. A beggar, ragged in fraying leather pants and tunic, sat cross-legged at the base of an oak riddled with wilt. Other than those few, there was no one. Ben frowned. There was a hunted, almost desperate look in the eyes of those few that was troubling.
“Who are they?” he asked Questor quietly.
Questor looked out at the ragged gathering and turned away. “Spectators.”
“Spectators?”
“To the coronation.”
“Well, where is everybody else?”
“Fashionably late, perhaps.” Abernathy deadpanned. Behind him, the kobolds hissed softly and showed their teeth.
Ben put his hand on Questor’s shoulder and brought him about. “What’s going on, Questor? Where is everyone?”
The wizard rubbed his chin nervously. “It is possible that those who are coming are simply a bit late arriving, detained perhaps by something that they had not foreseen when they…”
“Wait a minute.” Ben cut him short. “Run that by me once more — ‘those who are coming’ did you say? Does that mean that some don’t intend to come?”
“Oh, well, I was simply using a figure of speech, High Lord. Certainly all who can come will.”