Free The Prince in Waiting by John Christopher

handkerchief, and returned to bathe his face. It was swelling already and would look terrible in a few hours.
    I said: “It was a good fight. The Spirits were on my side.”
    He stared at me, making no answer. I crumpled the handkerchief in my pocket and put an arm out to him.
    â€œYou are filthy, and so am I. Let’s leave this lot.” I gave my head a small contemptuous jerk in the direction of the watching circle. “Come back with me, and we’ll get ourselves cleaned up.”
    â€œBack” meant the palace, which had been his home. He still did not speak and I thought he would refuse. But at last he nodded slightly. I helped him up and we went off together. The onlookers parted to give us way and watched us go in puzzled silence.
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    After that Edmund and I were friends. One day the three of us—he and Martin and I—were strolling down the High Street past the Seance Hall when the Seer came out. He stopped and spoke, addressing himself to me.
    â€œYou keep strange company, Luke.”
    I said: “It is the company I choose, sire, and which chooses me.”
    The remark must have been aimed at Edmund—he had seen Martin and me together often enough—and I did not like it. It was said that the Seer had been among those who were for killing the sons of Stephen, and I supposed he was angry that Edmund had escaped and angrier that I should befriend him. But he went on:
    â€œIt is good to see quarrels mended before they become feuds.” He turned to Edmund. “Your brother is with the Army?”
    â€œYes, sire.”
    There was something in his voice which was not quite contempt but a long way from the deference which was reckoned to be the Seer’s due. He had not been to a Seance, I knew, since his father’s death. He believed in the Spirits, I think, and acknowledged their power, but hated them. His long face was without expression but I saw scorn in the blue eyes under the high forehead.
    Ezzard, disregarding this, if indeed he saw it, said:
    â€œHe fought well in the battle.”
    â€œWhat battle?” I asked.
    â€œThe battle at Bighton, where Alton was defeated.”
    I stared at him. “We have only just come from the Citadel. There is no news yet. The pigeons have brought none.”
    Ezzard smiled his thin cold smile. “The Spirits do not have to wait on the wings of pigeons.”
    â€œThis is from the Spirits?”
    â€œWould I tell you else?”
    â€œAnd a victory?” Martin asked. “At Bighton?”
    â€œThe pigeons are already flying,” Ezzard said. “They will be in their cotes before sunset.”
    It must be true. I asked:
    â€œAnd my father . . .?”
    â€œThe Prince is safe.”
    I was too excited to speak further. But Martin said:
    â€œHow do they bring the news?” Ezzard looked at him. “The Spirits? If not on wings, how?”
    Ezzard said: “A wise man, or boy, does not ask questions concerning the Spirits. They tell him what he needs to know. That is enough.”
    It was a rebuke, but Martin persisted. “But you know things about the Spirits, sir, since you serve them and talk with them. Is that not true?”
    â€œI know what I am told, boy.”
    â€œBut more than the rest of us do? How they bring their messages without wings, perhaps?” Ezzard’s eye was on him. “I am not asking how, sir—just if you do know.”
    â€œI know many things,” Ezzard said, “and I keep my knowledge to myself, imparting it only to those who have dedicated their lives to serve the Spirits. Would you do that, Martin? Would you be an Acolyte?”
    It was a good reply, and one that must stop his questioning. Even if I had not heard him blaspheming the idea would have been ridiculous. One would have to be crazed to be an Acolyte—shaving one’s head, fasting, droning prayers to the Spirits all day and half