The Indigo King - James A. Owen [38]
Uncas and Fred both agreed with Reynard—they would be safe. So John grabbed the bag with their scanty supplies and stepped quickly between the chairs to the screen, gesturing to the others as he did so. “Jack! Charles! No time to debate! Let’s go!”
“I am not Charles!” Chaz exclaimed over the din. “I shouldn’t be allowed!”
Jack merely shook his head in disgust and stepped into the projection. John turned around and faced Chaz.
“Perhaps not in this place,” he said through the crashing sounds that were now all around them, “but in another place, another dimension, you are our friend Charles, and I would not think of leaving you behind.”
He reached out his hand, imploring the confused man to take it.
“Chaz!” John beckoned. “Come with us! Now!”
With both hands, Chaz took John’s outstretched arm and stepped into the picture.
PART THREE
After the Age of Fable
CHAPTER NINE
The Storyteller
This Pellinor, Hugo decided, was the most loquacious fellow he’d ever met, even if he seemed mostly to be conversing with himself. The fact that Hugo had more than a passing fluency with Anglo-Saxon made little difference: King Pellinor was in his own realm, and Hugo was merely an interested observer and infrequent participant.
That was fine with Hugo, who had at first determined that he was at the center of the greatest, most elaborate practical joke ever devised by an Oxford don. Jack was probably the instigator, but John had certainly played his part, and played it well. That they had both disappeared along with the door he’d passed through could be attributed to some sort of stage illusion; but the fact that they’d made Magdalen, and in fact, all of Oxford itself disappear could only be explained by the idea that he’d been hypnotized, or transmogrified, or whatever it was that the illusionists did to people that made them think they were the Queen or a chicken or some such. But as the hours passed, Hugo began to realize that it was no illusion, and certainly no joke.
The strange old king produced the crumpled photograph of Hugo that had been taken at the University of Reading, where he taught English, but he remained closemouthed as to who had given it to him and why.
They traveled southward throughout the night, their path lit only by the small lamp Pellinor had attached to the side of the cart. The king kept up a rambling monologue (or more precisely, a solo dialogue) for most of the way, only occasionally interrupting the flow of words to incorporate an answer to one of Hugo’s queries. Most of the tales the king told seemed to involve his personal genealogy, and an ancestor who had been shamed at Alexandria, but Hugo couldn’t really be sure.
With the coming of daylight, Hugo was better able to take in Pellinor’s unusual appearance. The clothing was as authentic as any Hugo had ever seen in museums—but so were the scars that laced the old man’s arms and neck. There was even a deep gash along his cheek, which had long since healed.
The old king dismissed queries about the wounds with a laugh and a story about the mythical Questing Beast. And after noticing the weapons and armor still reddened with blood in the back of the cart, Hugo stopped asking questions and just listened to Pellinor ramble.
As the light came up, Hugo could make out other carts and horsemen off in the distance all around them, all headed in the same direction.
He asked Pellinor about them, and the old king answered with an uncommon gravity. “They are going to the same place that we journey to,” he said, eyes fixed on Hugo. “To the tournament. To the great Debate.”
“Debate?” asked Hugo. “What kind of debate requires horsemen and swordplay?”
“The kind that determines the future of the land,” said Pellinor. “The kind that may only be held in a sacred place. A place of death and rebirth.”
“And where is that?” asked Hugo.
Pellinor answered, but the accent made it difficult to understand.