Artsivus frowned even more darkly at these words from the goblin, but apparently decided it was below his dignity to argue with a jester.
“My grandfather was a shaman,” Kli-Kli went on. “And he trained me, too. However I was not born to be a magician. But I do remember the
The jester’s voice positively rang with pride. I think his shaman grandfather would have been no less proud of his grandson. Memorizing an entire book written by some crazy madman—that definitely requires persistence and talent.
“And what was the quatrain in the original?”
Tormented by thirst and cursed by darkness,
The undead sinners bear their punishment.
And only one will not die in their fangs,
He who dances with the shadows like a brother.
“That’s not so smooth. I liked the first version a lot better,” I said, letting him know my opinion of the poetry of the goblins.
“Oh, just look at you! The great connoisseur of literature and art! That was written by the great insane shaman Tre-Tre!” said Kli-Kli, trying to put me in my place.
“That’s pretty obvious.” This time I didn’t intend to let the jester have the last word.
“But then we don’t steal other people’s prophecies and transform them into neat little verses,” the goblin snorted, and turned his back on me.
My ignorance of the literary masterpiece by a goblin shaman who gorged himself on magic mushrooms had finally convinced the little jester that I was basically illiterate.
“By the way, Kli-Kli, what is that prophecy about?” Stalkon asked.
“It’s called ‘The Dancer in the Shadows.’ I could recite it for you in full, but that would require a couple of hours.”
Oho! It seemed like the old shaman didn’t know when to stop! Whenever he wrote a poem, it was at least two hours long!
“And in brief?”
“Er-er-er . . . ,” said the jester, wrinkling up his forehead. “Let’s put it this way. It’s a prophecy about a man who makes his living from an iniquitous trade, but who has decided to serve the good of his homeland. There are all sorts of things in it, but in the end he will attain salvation for the peoples of Siala and halt the advance of the enemy. Salvation comes from the Mysterious Stone Palaces of the Bones. That means Hrad Spein, in case anyone didn’t understand,” said Kli-Kli, casting an expressive glance at me. “It’s a prophecy about you, Harold. Well, I never thought I’d meet a real live hero out of the
“Stop telling fibs,” I said dismissively. I didn’t like the idea of becoming the hero of some goblin prophecy made up by an insane old shaman. “I don’t believe in stupid fairy tales. That Tre-Tre of yours got something confused, or he ate something that disagreed with him. And why does it have to be me? As if there weren’t plenty of people plying iniquitous trades!”
Well, let them try to guess the meaning of some useless fairy tale if they want to! What’s important is that I don’t believe in the insane ramblings of shamans driven crazy by charm-weed, but you can’t expect too much from a goblin, especially if he happens to be the king’s fool.
“All right then, ‘The Dancer in the Shadows’ . . . Interesting . . . I tell you what, Kli-Kli, you write out this prophecy on paper for me, and I’ll familiarize myself with it when I have the time,” said Artsivus.
“A toy-oy-oy,” a deep voice said behind my back, and a man jumped forward into the center of the room.
His respectable shirt was dirty and stained, his trousers were crumpled, and the hair on his head was a genuine disgrace, a bird’s nest.
“I want a toy,” the man said, then he flopped down on the floor and banged one foot on it.
The eldest son and former heir.
No one really knew what it was—a punishment from the gods or something that just happened—but King Stalkon the Ninth’s eldest son, a man the same age as myself, had the mind of a four-year-old boy. Naturally, he would never be able to claim the throne, which would have to pass to the younger prince, who also bore the name Stalkon, like all the men in this dynasty.
The older son had been given several nannies to care for him, and he lived in his own childish, fairy-tale little world, which was probably very happy, without any of the pain, dirt, and blood of the real world.
“Shouldn’t you be asleep? Where are your nannies?” the king asked his son. I sensed an unusual tenderness in his voice.
“Rotten beasts!” That was all the prince had to say about his governesses.
“I’ll take him,” Kli-Kli intervened. “You come with me, Stalkosha, come on. I’ll give you a toy.”
“A toy?” The king’s eldest son bounced up onto his feet and stomped after the jester, who had already slipped out through the door.
