Free The Brave Apprentice by P. W. Catanese Page B

twinkled in the light of the flame.
    They emerged into a new corridor above the great hall and stopped when they came to a tall door. The girl rapped on the door three times, pushed it open, and gestured for Patch to go inside.
    Patch stepped into the room and pushed back the hood of his brown cape. The room was small, comfortably furnished, and warm. There was a window filled with real glass, in hazy colors that warped the afternoon light. There was a canopied bed, unoccupied, thick with quilts and blankets. A small fire cast an orange glow on the walls, and there were three chairs in front of the fire. A familiar white-haired figure sat in one, bathing in the warmth, sunken and hunched. His shallow breathing was the only sound in the room.
    “Will Sweeting?” Patch asked quietly, stepping closer. “You sent for me?”
    “Not him, Patch.” A woman stepped out from the corner of the room behind Patch. “I sent the soldiers to bring you here.”
    Patch saw the long raven hair and the slim band of gold around her forehead. “I saw you. After the council.”
    “Do you know who I am?”
    Patch cleared his throat. “The …queen?”
    She nodded. “Cecilia.”
    Patch opened his mouth, realized he didn’t know what to say, and closed it again. Cecilia smiled. “I heard what happened. I worried what became of you. Especially when your horse came back without its rider.”
    Patch lowered his head. “I just thought I should go home. After the trouble I caused …and Gosling …”
    The queen took his hand. “Come and sit by the fire.” She took the seat beside Will Sweeting, and Patch took the third chair. “This is his room,” she said, patting the old man’s arm. Sweeting stared into the flames, his head bobbing gently. His breathing fell silent for a moment, then resumed, a little weaker than before. “Be strong for me,” Cecilia whispered to him, squeezing his arm. “Stay with us a little longer, old friend.”
    Patch said, “He was a real hero, wasn’t he?”
    “Oh, yes.” The queen pointed to the wall beside the hearth. A wide strip of heavy white cloth hung there, yellowed with age and frayed along the sides, hanging from a buckle that was looped over a nail.
A belt,
Patch realized. Words had been written in red thread along its length, in uneven stitches that betrayed the exhilaration of the young man who wielded the needle. Patch tilted his head to read the words aloud: “Seven at one blow.”
    Cecilia smiled at the old man. “Do you know the story, Patch? Young Will swatted seven flies that landed on his bread and jam, and he embroidered that belt to celebratethe deed. But people thought he’d slain
men,
not flies, and took him for a great warrior. Before long, Will was asked to battle dangerous foes—giants, even. And with courage and wit, he turned out to be a brave little tailor indeed. He became a valued adviser to Milo’s father, and then to Milo. It is only in the last few years that he has begun to slip away from us.
    “At first these spells of his, this wakeful dreaming, came once in a great while. Then they grew longer and more frequent. Now he is lost to us more often than not. Only on the rarest occasion does he lift his head and speak. But when he does, you realize that he is always listening.” She patted the old man’s hand. “A real hero, as you said. But you’ve been a hero yourself, Patch.”
    “Not me.”
    “You saved your friend, at the bridge in your little town.”
    Patch shook his head. “I didn’t save anyone, Your Highness.”
    “You didn’t kill the troll?”
    “I guess nobody knows that part of the story,” Patch said wearily. “I killed the troll, all right. But Osbert—my friend, the fellow on the bridge with me—he died anyway. Just an hour later. He was very sick. We buried him on a hill, just outside of the town.” Patch slid off the chair and sat on the floor. There was a poker leaning against the hearth. He used it to prod the logs, sending