Dark Border 01 The Lost Prince by Paul Edwin Zimmer

Author:Paul Edwin Zimmer [Zimmer, Paul Edwin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Berkley
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Jodos, bathed and dressed, moved through the alien life of the castle, controlling his panic with the ease of long practise, listening to his brother’s ghost in his brain as it told him how to act.

He smiled at the right times and places, gave appropriate ritual answers to greetings, and avoided talking to anyone for too long. He studied the minds around him, trying to judge his performance. Most, he saw, thought him exhausted from the Coronation, or distressed by Pirthio’s death. All thought he acted strange—he carefully noted why, in order to perfect his role—but none suspected the truth.

Fear subsided. The idea never entered their minds; they were all too stupid to even imagine the substitution! But he avoided scrupulously the castle Healers and Lord Shachio.

The sheer numbers of people became terrifying. He remembered that his brother had often fled to the solitude of the garden, and made his way there. It was filled with detestable life. His brother’s mind assured him it was all harmless, but the wariness which had kept him alive through long years in the Shadow made him keep a cautious eye on grass and leaf, bird, insect, and flower.

The light was much too bright. He sat fastidiously on a bench in the shade, and studied his brother’s mind. Lord Shachio was his chief danger. He must find a way to take over the Seer’s mind—carefully, tracelessly. . . .

He was suddenly aware of hostile eyes. Without turning, he studied the thoughts of the man coming up behind him. Coming close, to kill him. Booted feet moved unhurriedly over the grass, on a course carefully chosen to pass the bench—just close enough. The man’s mind revealed a leap, a turn, a cut—it was all very prettily planned.

Jodos considered. He would have to kill the man. A pity, in a way; this Sandor could have been useful. It had been three years since the Blue-robe’s finger had reached out to trace that mark on his forehead (blood, screaming, a headless woman’s body. . . .), and this man, surviving by his wits and his sword, had had much time to build hatred since he’d abandoned the faint hope that he might redeem himself fighting on the Border. . . .

Sandor had almost reached his goal. Another step and he would jump and draw, his steel spinning out across the throat of the unsuspecting figure on the bench. And no one was in sight! There would be time to escape unseen, perhaps even time to find Prince Phillipos, earn a little extra. . . . He tensed for the jump.

Jodos rose, turning, and seized the man’s eyes with his own. Sandor staggered, his hand locked to the sword-hilt. Jodos smiled, studying the image of the Duke of Ipazema in Sandor’s mind, guessing the Duke’s plans from Sandor’s memories of things the Duke had said. Sandor’s sword pulled free with a desperate jerk. His gaze still trapped in those huge, dark eyes, he lurched forward one stumbling step, and then another, knowing he must kill to get free.

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