A Princess of Landover

No one but Ben understood the full extent of the medallion’s power. No one else knew the whole of its secret save for Willow, and it had taken him a long time to tell her.

The medallion provided a link between King and Paladin because the one was the alter ego of the other.

Ben Holiday was the Paladin.

When he summoned his champion, it materialized out of nowhere, a ghost come out of the ether. It rode a battle horse and it was fully armored and armed and ready for combat. It defended Ben, but in doing so it took him inside and made him a part of itself. It did so because the strength of the King determined the strength of the knight.

But there was more. The Paladin carried with it the memories of all the battles it had ever fought for all the Kings of Landover who had ever been. Those memories were harsh and raw and painted with blood and death. They surfaced instantly when it was joined to Ben. They transformed his character in the bargain, infusing him with a bloodlust that was all-consuming He became the warrior that had survived every struggle it had ever engaged in. Everything else was forgotten; all that mattered was winning the battle, whatever the cost. The battle became everything.

And while he was the Paladin and while he fought, he wanted nothing more than what he had at that moment—a fight to the death.

Afterward, he was always shaken at how completely he had been overwhelmed by the primal emotions of the struggle. While he fought as the Paladin, he loved how those emotions made him feel, how alive he became. But he was left drained and terrified afterward, and he always hoped he would never have to make the change again.

Because, secretly, he was afraid that one day he would not be able to change back again.

Even now, after all these years, he struggled with this dark secret. He could tell no one, although the weight of it was enormous. It was his alone to bear, for all the years of life that remained to him. It repulsed him, but at the same time he remembered how the transformation would feel when it happened again. The mix of the two was troubling, and though he continued to try he had not yet found a way to come to terms with it.

He was in the midst of pondering this when a knock sounded on the chamber door, and before he could respond the heavy portal swung open to admit Laphroig of Rhyndweir.

Ben started to get to his feet and abruptly sat down again, staring in disbelief.

Laphroig always dressed in black. Always. Ben had assumed the affectation had to do with either the impression he was trying to make on others or the one he had of himself. Today, though, Laphroig wore white so dazzling that on anyone else it might have suggested the angelic. White ribbons and bits of lace decorated his cuffs and shoulders and elbows, a sash wrapped twice around his waist, and a white cloak draped his slender form and hung just inches from the floor.

And a broad-brimmed hat, too. With a feather in it!

Laphroig wasn’t a big man to start with. Indeed, he was smallish and slender, his features sharp and his black hair spiky. There was a sly and cunning look to him and a ferret’s quickness to his movements. But dressed as he was today, all in white, he reminded Ben of an egret.

What in the heck, Ben asked himself, is going on?

The Lord of Rhyndweir approached with something between a mince and a bounce, removed his feathered hat with a flourish, and bowed deeply. “High Lord, I am your humble servant.”

That’ll be the day, Ben thought.

“Lord Laphroig,” he replied, almost saying Lord Frog, only just managing to keep from doing so. He gestured to the chair on his right. “Please sit down.”

Laphroig swept his cape out behind him and settled himself comfortably. Ben couldn’t stop staring. The thought crossed his mind that aliens might have taken Laphroig over and caused him to don the outlandish outfit. But otherwise he looked the same: eyes protruding, tongue flicking out, spiky black hair sticking straight up …

Ben blinked. Those inky, depthless eyes: There was a glint of cunning there, a look both cold and calculating. He remembered Abernathy’s words of caution and banished his incredulity and bemusement. It was not a good idea to consider Laphroig as harmless. “What brings you to Sterling Silver?” he asked, smiling as if everything were normal.

“A matter of utmost importance, High Lord,” Laphroig replied, his face suddenly serious. Then he smiled. “I see you are surprised by my dress. Not the usual black. That is because of what brings me here. Black does not suit the subject of my visit. White is more appropriate, and I decided to honor my purpose by dressing accordingly.”

Ben nodded, wondering where this was going.