was not as amused as the other feasters at this line of jesting. In the past few months, Darrow had grown cold toward the young hero he had brought to his court. He no longer joined in when his noblemen sang Aidan’s praises.
“One of these hunt feasts, we’re going to put King Darrow at Aidan’s right hand!” called another feaster.
Aidan watched Darrow’s eyes narrow even as the lower half of his face continued to smile. He saw the king’s jaw working as he ground his back teeth. Aidan quickly wiped the smile from his own face, hoping to discourage further jokes in this vein.
But immediately after the seating of the king and chief huntsmen came the presentation of the game, and with it came further reason for the king to be annoyed. Two liveried servants brought out the yearling pigs killed by Darrow’s hunting party. Each was arranged in a bed of greenery on a silver platter, and each had an apple in its mouth. The feasters applauded politely as the pigs were placed on the head table in front of the king. They were nothing to be ashamed of, certainly. Two yearling pigs constituted a respectable bag for a morning’s hunt.
But the applause swelled to a crescendo of cheering, whistling, and foot stomping when a trio of kitchen servants staggered into the trophy room under Steren’s and Aidan’s massive boar. It was roasted to a succulent brown, and in its snarling mouth an apple-the largest apple the cook could find-looked like a shriveled plum.
“Now that’s a hog!” somebody shouted.
“Darrow should be ashamed of himself,” joked Lord Grady, “killing those little piglets when a monster like that was prowling his forest!”
The head table, made of thick slabs of black walnut, sagged under the weight of the three hogs, not to mention the pots and platters of vegetables.
From where they sat, the noblemen could hardly see the king for the mountain of roast hog the servants had placed in front of him. “Say, what happened to King Darrow?” called Lord Cleland. “Are you still there, Your Majesty?”
Aidan stole a quick glance at Darrow. The king was looking down at his plate, his mouth set in a tight line. He wasn’t even pretending to be amused now. Aidan stared down at the table, counting the tines on his forks, tracing the pattern on his dinner plate. It had been a hard few months for Aidan. The more he grew in the noblemen’s favor, the harder it was to please his king.
“Look,” laughed Lord Grady, “the great huntsman’s ears are turning red!”
“Stop, Grady,” came the voice of another nobleman. “You’re embarrassing him.” Aidan stared harder at his plate, praying that everyone’s attention would soon shift elsewhere.
Suddenly, Aidan’s plate lurched away from him like a boat that had drifted into a swift current. For a dizzying, disorienting moment, Aidan thought he was falling backward out of his chair. But Aidan wasn’t tipping; the table was, tilting forward into the middle of the trophy room, crashing heavily onto its side. Earthenware dashed to pieces on the sandstone floor, and peas, carrots, and potatoes scattered in all directions. Candle stands clattered to the floor, and broken, extinguished candles lay among the debris. The hunting dogs boiled over the overturned table to get at the roasted hogs that lay broken on the floor.
Chapter Four
Everyone stared in astonished silence at King Darrow, who stood in his place at the center of the head table. His face was still red from the exertion of flipping the thick walnut table and its heavy contents-no small feat for a man in his midsixties. His black eyes were flashing, and his hands were clenched into fists at his sides.
“I am Darrow,” he said in a loud, clear voice that echoed around the trophy room. “I am king of Corenwald.”
The courtiers, recovering a little, rose quickly to their feet out of respect for their king. Darrow put a booted foot on the edge of the overturned table and tipped it so it was completely upside down. The heavy clap of the tabletop on the floor scattered the dogs. The king stepped across the table and into the space between the two remaining tables. He stood in front of Lord Grady and spoke to him with clipped words. “I am your king.”
Grady looked down at his hands, fumbling at his hunting tunic. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
Darrow turned to the table behind him and walked to Lord Halbard. He reached across the table, grabbed a handful of Halbard’s coat, and pulled him close until their noses almost touched. He searched Halbard’s face, as if he no longer recognized his old friend. “I… am
… your… king!” He spoke each word separately and distinctly, and his voice was raised to a near shout.
Halbard’s eyes bulged with terror. “Y-yes, Your Majesty,” he stuttered.
Meanwhile, the dogs had begun fighting over the carcass of Aidan’s boar, and the growling, snapping, yelping mass tumbled into King Darrow and got tangled under his feet. The king let go of Halbard and kicked at the dogs. He caught two by the scruff of the neck, one with each hand, before they could scamper away. He lifted the two dogs up to his own eye level and, shaking with rage, screamed at them: “I am your king!” He dropped the dogs, and they slunk off whimpering, their tails between their legs.
Darrow now turned his attention to Aidan. He stalked toward the head table, unmindful of the potatoes and peas that stuck to the bottom of his boots with each step. Standing on the planks of the overturned table, he towered over Aidan. “I am Darrow of Tambluff!” he thundered.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Aidan answered, looking down at his boots. His father had taught him never to make eye contact with an aggressive bear; it seemed fitting advice at this moment.
Darrow leaned even closer, and Aidan could feel his hot breath on his forehead. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” bellowed the king.
Aidan raised his eyes to look into his king’s, and he was startled by what he saw. Darrow’s eyes bulged out of their sockets. White showed all around the black pupils. Darrow saw the horror in Aidan’s face. “How dare you look me in the eye?” he shouted, even though he was only inches away. “I am your king!”
Aidan wasn’t sure where to look. He couldn’t please the king by looking down; he couldn’t please him by looking him in the eye. He fixed his eyes on Darrow’s chin. “Yes, Sire. You are my king. I have never once forgotten.”
King Darrow snorted. “You have forgotten many things, boy. You have forgotten every kindness I ever showed to you and your family. You have forgotten what you were when I brought you to Tambluff: a shepherd boy, the son of a father whose standing in the realm isn’t what it used to be.”
Darrow’s low, contemptuous chuckle was interrupted by the clear voice of Prince Steren. “No, Father.” Darrow wheeled around to face his son. But Steren wasn’t cowed by his father’s rage. “You are the one who has forgotten. Aidan’s bravery saved your realm from the Pyrthen Empire. Is this your thanks for Aidan’s service?”
“Quiet, you insolent pup!” spluttered Darrow. “You may be too foolish to see what this boy is doing, but I’m not.” He shot a quick, scornful look at Aidan. “He wants to be king. From the day he got here, he’s done everything he could to steal away the loyalty of my noblemen.”
Aidan could feel hot resentment gather in a knot at his Adam’s apple. But it wasn’t only resentment he felt. He also felt the heartbreak and disappointment of injured love. No one in Corenwald was more devoted to King Darrow than Aidan was.
Darrow continued. “He has wheedled his way into your good graces, too, Steren, with his pretended friendship.”
“Pretended?” yelped the prince. “How can you even say-”
Darrow raised his hand for silence. He was speaking more softly now. His rage seemed to have spent itself. “Quiet, Son. You must see. It’s not my throne that’s in danger. It’s yours. I’ll live out my days as high king of Corenwald.” Darrow gestured toward Aidan behind him. “There’s not much this schemer can do about that. But someday I will die. And do you think he’ll just sit by and let you receive the crown of Corenwald without a fight?”
Darrow put a hand on either of Steren’s shoulders. “You are a good and trusting soul. Too good. Too trusting.”
