The Sword of Shannara - Terry Brooks [257]
At the bottom of the stairway, Balinor and his friends watched silently, afraid that any distraction might break the strange spell Menion Leah was weaving, for Palance was still listening, his clouded mind struggling to break the wall of confusion surrounding it. Slowly he stepped forward on the landing, closing the door quietly behind him and brushing past Stenmin as if he hadn’t seen him. His adviser hesitated in confusion, glancing uncertainly at the cellar door as if debating the wisdom of attempting to flee. But he was not yet prepared to accept defeat, and he whirled quickly, catching Palance by the arm and thrusting his lean face next to the man’s ear.
“Are you mad? Are you as insane as some say, my King?” he whispered venomously. “Will you throw everything away now — give it all back to your brother? Was he meant to be king — or you? This is all a lie! The Prince of Leah is a friend to Allanon.”
Palance turned toward him slightly, his eyes widening.
“Yes, Allanon!” Stenmin knew he had struck a nerve and was determined to pursue it. “Who do you think seized your betrothed from her home in Kern? This man who speaks of friendship was part of the kidnapping — it was all a ruse to get inside the palace and then assassinate you. You were to be killed!”
Below the stairway, Hendel took a step forward, but Balinor put out a restraining hand. Menion stood quietly, knowing that any sudden move now would only confirm Stenmin’s charges. He directed a withering glance at the wily mystic, turning quickly back to Palance and shaking his head.
“He is a traitor. He belongs to the Warlock Lord.”
Palance took several steps down the stairway, glancing briefly at Menion and then staring fixedly at his brother who waited patiently at the foot of the stairs. A faint smile crossed his lips as he paused confusedly.
“What do you think, brother? Am I really... mad? If not me, then... why, it must be everyone else, and I alone am... sane. Say something, Balinor. We should have that talk now... Before... I did want to say something...”
But the sentence was left unfinished as he straightened his tall frame and looked back once again at Stenmin, who had taken on the appearance of a dangerously cornered animal, crouched and waiting to attack.
“You are pathetic, Stenmin. Stand up!” The sharp command cut through the stillness and the bent figure of the mystic snapped upright. “Advise me what I should do,” Palance ordered sharply. “Do I have everyone killed — will that protect me?”
In an instant Stenmin was back at his side, the sharp eyes cold with fury.
“Call your guard, my Lord. Dispose of these assassins now!”
Suddenly Palance seemed to waver, his tall frame drooping, his eyes glancing at the walls of the cellar in studied concentration of the stonework. Menion sensed that the Prince of Callahorn was again losing his grip on reality and falling back into the clouded world of madness that had impaired his once sound reason. Stenmin recognized it as well, a grim smile creeping over his dark face, his hand coming up to stroke the small pointed beard. Then abruptly, Palance spoke once more.
“No, there will be no soldiers... no killing. A King must be a man of judgment... Balinor is my brother, though he wishes to be King in my place. He and I must talk now... he is not to be harmed... not harmed.” His voice trailed off and he smiled unexpectedly at Menion. “You brought Shirl back to me... I thought I had lost her, you know. Why... would you do that... if you were an enemy...?”
Stenmin screamed in fury, grasping furiously at the other’s tunic, but the Prince did not seem to realize he was even there.
“It is difficult for me... to think clearly, Balinor,” Palance continued in a low whisper, shaking his head slowly. “Nothing is clear anymore... I don’t even feel angry toward you for wanting to be King. I have always... wanted