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By Root 1133 0

stole all the attention. This was a matter of simple, unemotional logic. If four musicians played the same tune, but only one of them did it well, then the bad ones would ruin any effect the good one had. It stood to reason. It wasn’t opinion, but the simple and impartial calculus of performance. No matter how wonderfully the good one played, it would still come out as a mad cacophony. But, if their music did sound lovely and melodious, which it certainly had, it could only be because they’d all played well — even Peter, he reluctantly had to admit. They all did a professional job of it and no one should be singled out, except maybe Max, because he had the more difficult instrument to play. He played the large bass flute — with its deep and resonant tones — because he was the only one big enough — well, at least tall and lanky enough — to do it. His father was a short man, and Peter was still just a kid. Neither of them had a wide enough natural hand spread to cover all of the stops. Only Max’s long, dexterous fingers were up to the daunting task.

And yet it was Peter they loved and complimented, and all because Father couldn’t stop praising his younger son. He’s the one who put the idea into everyone’s minds. If Father would just shut up for once, and let their respective talents speak for themselves, then Max would be recognized as the true prodigy.

Of that he was certain.

It was a simple matter of logic.

And not only that, Peter took the best berry tart for dessert. He could see Max had his eye on it, so, just to be vindictive, the little stinker stole it right off the tray, before it came around to Max.

These were the thoughts that troubled Max’s mind, going round and round, repeating once and again, as he slowly drifted off into a fitful sleep.

The sound of thunder woke him.

Max could tell many things as he struggled into consciousness, but they were all a confused jumble in his head. He could hear the distant thunder, but there seemed to be too much of it, like it was the biggest of all storms. But it was also in a terrible hurry, one thrump of thunder following right after another, with none of the usual breaks in between. It boomed in a steady rhythm, as if trying to get all of its crashing and pounding out as quickly as possible. And he smelled breakfast smells, so someone had thought to start cooking. And that was good, because if people were making breakfast, then things couldn’t be too bad. No one thinks to cook when the world’s coming to an end. Then again, he was almost certain he’d also heard screaming.

His first cogent thought was to go to the window and see just what was what, but he also had an urgent need to pee, as he very naturally did every morning upon waking. He sat frustrated for a moment, his pale and spindly bare legs hanging off the tall bed. Both possibilities seemed to require immediate attention. Since he couldn’t decide to do one thing over the other, he compromised and did both. He grabbed the chamber pot from under the bed and took it with him, shuffling hurriedly over to the window in his nightshirt and his nightcap and his bare feet.

Out in the road, not more than a stone’s throw from the main house, and therefore from his own window, Max saw an invading army. They marched in ranks, four or five abreast, down the very same road his family had traveled the day before. First, in the vanguard there were men on horseback, outfitted in iron armor overlaid with lacquers of midnight black and dusky gold and deep carnelian. Here there was a knight in armor all of green, and there was one in armor of white, decorated in twining blue flowers. And dozens more Max spied, wearing armor and surcoats and flowing cloaks of every color in the spectrum. They sat upon great chargers, with barding that matched the riders. They wore plumed helmets and had long, heavy broadswords strapped to their belts. Behind the parade of knights came the color guard, more mounted soldiers but in uniform livery, carrying bright pennants, heralding numerous past victories. And then behind the flashing color guard,