How to Slay a Dragon - Bill Allen [51]
Nathan turned the night’s lesson over to Priscilla, who shared tips that, when combined with all Nathan had taught about breathing and concentration (which turned out not to be nonsense after all), helped Greg greatly improve his chikan skills. Soon Greg could best both Lucky and Priscilla in every sparring contest. Give him a stick and a moment to compose himself, and he felt he could defeat any opponent. Then he remembered the type of opponents Myrth had to offer.
Priscilla interrupted his thoughts. “Greg, can I talk to you about something?”
He stared at her, his stick hovering in midair.
“In private.”
Greg lowered his stick. “Sure.”
The two left Nathan and Lucky to practice and moved to the spot where the bedrolls were laid out. Greg looked to Priscilla expectantly.
“It’s about what you were saying at Simon’s,” she said, “about prophecies never being wrong.”
“I thought we settled that. This is going to be the first.”
“No, it won’t.”
“You can’t know that.”
Priscilla glanced over at Nathan and Lucky and back again. “Yes, I can.” She lowered her voice to just above a whisper. “If anything, this would be the second.”
Greg’s jaw dropped. “What are you saying?”
She looked at him sternly. “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll deny everything.”
Greg lowered his voice, too. “Tell me what you know.”
“When my father received word of the prophecy from Simon, Mother started acting weird.” She grinned slightly. “That’s usually Dad’s department. I knew right away something was wrong, so I hounded her to tell me what it was.”
“What did she say?”
“To mind my own business.”
“Everything okay over there?” Nathan called out.
“We’re fine,” Greg said, feeling anything but. He fixed Priscilla with a stare. “So, what do you know?”
“I don’t think Mother would have ever told me, but each day closer to your arrival she grew more and more worried about Penelope. She’s been putting on a brave face for Dad, but I think she finally needed someone to confide in.”
“And she told you about another prophecy?”
“No.” Priscilla looked at the others again. “I mean yes. Sort of. She didn’t tell me anything about it, just that she thinks there was a prophecy that didn’t come true. Apparently there was some big cover-up. I don’t think many people know about it. Not even Daddy.” Priscilla quieted. “Greg, are you okay?”
Greg swallowed hard. “Since I’ve been here, I was sure that everyone on Myrth was crazy.”
“Thanks.”
“But there’s always been this one chance, however small, that they were right and I was the crazy one.” His voice barely escaped his throat. “Now even that small chance is gone.”
Priscilla shrugged. “Well, at least you’re not crazy.”
Greg found it impossible to sleep. He slipped away from the others and used the eternal torch to light a second length of wood, which he planted in the ground so he could free up his hands to write in his journal. He had intended the book to last only one summer, and while that in itself had required him to use small print, the number of bizarre experiences he had been recording since he arrived in Myrth had required him to achieve a new mastery of tiny penmanship.
Priscilla must have been having trouble sleeping too. She walked up behind him and spoke, nearly causing him to scream. “What are you doing?”
“Writing about my adventure,” Greg said. “It helps me relax.” He noticed his hand trembling. “Usually.”
“You know how to write?” she asked, amazed.
“Well, sure,” Greg said. “Don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” Priscilla said indignantly. “But I’m royalty. Most . . . common folk never learn.”
“Most?”
“Well, a few do. Like my father’s scribe, Brandon.”
“Not very well, according to Lucky.”
Priscilla frowned. “He’s not that bad when he’s not drinking. Oh no.” Her face reddened in the cutest way. “He wasn’t drunk when you met him, was he?”
“I didn’t,” said Greg. “Meet him, I mean.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have been surprised. Normally Dad doesn’t allow it, but he really has gone overboard on this whole Greghart thing. It’s really embarrassing.”
“What is?”
“My dad—he’s usually not so—what I mean is,