Chapter 8

 

Isdemus was quite thin, and he might have been tall or not: perhaps it was the exaggerated size of everything else in the room that made it difficult to tell. He held onto a walking stick with long-boned fingers, but he didn’t appear to need it. He wore a perplexingly opaque midnight blue dressing gown and matching cap that seemed to suck all the light from the cheerful fire behind him, like a black hole, Peter thought. And, like a black hole, he seemed to exert a sort of irresistible gravitational pull on the newcomers.

Kane began, “I didn’t mean to bother you, sir –”

“Silence!” Isdemus’s eyes flashed at him, and he held up a hand that glittered in the firelight with rings of opal and gold. “I’ll deal with you in the morning.”

“Why am I in trouble?” Kane protested. Suddenly he seemed very much like a petulant child.

“Do you really want me to answer that right now?” Isdemus growled.

Kane glowered at him but did not respond. Peter looked from Kane to Isdemus, trying to determine the relationship between them.

“Save your excuses,” said Isdemus, his voice quiet, but deadly. “I am not interested in hearing them tonight. Leave us!”

Kane turned indignantly and made a show of stomping out of the Great Hall.

Next Isdemus turned to his four guests, and his expression transformed before their eyes. “You must be hungry,” he said graciously. “Gladys is preparing a meal for you as we speak.” He nodded in the direction of a mousy little woman with her gray hair pulled back into a sloppy bun. None of them had noticed her until that moment. She bustled about the table without really doing much, but every few seconds she glanced furtively at Peter.

“Once you have eaten, I will call a servant to show you three to your chambers for the night,” Isdemus continued, indicating Cole, Brock, and Lily with a nod of his head.

“Wait a minute,” Cole protested, and looked at Brock for support. “Mum and Dad are gonna freak out. They expected us home hours ago!”

“Already taken care of,” said Isdemus. “Members of the Watchers have been dispatched to your home and to Miss Portman’s foster family to alert them of the situation as we speak, and the Jeffersons’ driver arrived safely back at your home, although he was totally unable to give a proper account. A nimbus has also been sent to inform Bruce Stewart of the situation.”

“In the last five minutes since we got here?” Brock said skeptically. “How do you even know who our parents are, or where they live? How do you even know who we are?”

“I think that’s why they’re called Watchers,” Cole whispered.

Peter could still sense Gladys’s eyes on him, but when he looked up to meet her gaze, she looked quickly away. Peter had the uncomfortable feeling that she lingered intentionally in order to sneak glances at him. He wished she would leave.

“Now,” Isdemus gestured towards Gladys and several other servants, who scurried into the Great Hall bearing enormous platters of cold cuts and loaves of bread. Once they had delivered the platters to the table along with stacks of plates and cutlery, the servants disappeared as quickly as they had come. Only Gladys stopped to cast another furtive glance in Peter’s direction.

“Dinner is served,” said Isdemus, and as if they needed further encouragement, added, “Tuck in.”

Brock tackled a tray of roast beef and brie, and Cole followed his brother’s lead. Lily looked ambivalent but grabbed a plate as well. Peter hung back. Cole glanced at him and said, “What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m not hungry,” Peter said. As the others stuffed their faces, Peter turned to stare into the dancing flames inside the hearth, feeling slightly ill. An idea had occurred to him, and he wished it hadn’t, but he couldn’t seem to shake it.

Bruce said Isdemus was his boss. Apparently, Isdemus was also Kane’s boss, which must make him the head of the Watchers. Does that mean...? Peter couldn’t finish the thought.

“What exactly are you planning to tell our families?” asked Cole between bites. “I’m not sure they’ll understand.”

“Do not worry,” said Isdemus with just a hint of a smile. “Believe it or not, the Watchers have quite a bit of experience communicating with the outside world.”

“Will you tell them… you know… the truth?” asked Cole.

“That depends on whether they’re ready for the truth,” Isdemus said mildly. “But I do not plan on lying to them, in any case.”

When Cole, Brock, and Lily finished eating, a servant appeared in the door frame wearing red and gold livery. The costume looked like something from the middle ages, but he wore a Bearskin reminiscent of those worn by the Beefeaters of the Tower of London, as if he couldn’t quite decide to which period of history he belonged.

Brock stared at him openly. Then he leaned over to Cole and whispered, “Did we fall down a rabbit hole and I just missed it?”

“No, we went through a portal,” Cole whispered back matter-of-factly. Brock looked at his brother as if he had never seen him before.

Meanwhile, the servant bowed to Isdemus.

“Gerald, will you please show these three to their chambers for the evening?” said Isdemus, gesturing at Lily, Brock, and Cole.

“Wait, wait, wait a second. Don’t we all have a right to know what’s going on?” Lily demanded.

“Of course you do,” said Isdemus, “but I hope you can appreciate the necessity to prioritize, Miss Portman. For the three of you, now that your bellies are full, sleep is highest priority on the list, and answers can come later. For Peter, I suspect, they cannot wait.” He looked at Peter keenly.

“They can’t wait for me either!” Lily exploded. “Do you honestly think any of us are going to sleep a wink without some explanations?”

“That is a very valid point,” Isdemus acknowledged. Lily looked triumphant for a moment, until he added, “I would imagine you would find it difficult to sleep without some assistance, however exhausted you may be.”

As if on cue, Gladys reentered the Great Hall, bearing a silver tray with a steaming silver teapot and several tiny china cups. She blew a stray wisp of gray hair out of her face, while very obviously trying not to look at Peter in such a way that made him even more uncomfortable than when she had been.

“What’s that?” said Lily suspiciously.

“Chamomile tea,” said Isdemus as Gladys furtively set four cups on the table and poured the steaming liquid into three of them. “Historically it has been used to calm anxious thoughts and mental chatter. It is mild, but quite effective, I assure you.”

“I want to stay up,” said Lily mutinously. “Whatever you can say to Peter, you can say to me.”

“You force me to be blunt,” Isdemus sighed. “What I mean to say is that, for tonight at least, Peter and I must speak alone.”

Peter shivered.

Cole and Brock exchanged a look, and Cole shrugged and took a cup. Brock eyed him as he slurped. When he didn’t fall over dead, Brock took one as well.

“Miss Portman?” Isdemus prodded. “I would highly recommend that you accept my assistance, though I would understand, after the night you have had, if you do not yet trust me. It is up to you, of course.”

Lily scowled at him, but said, “Well, if the food wasn’t poisoned…” and took the third cup. Before she had finished her first noisy slurp, Cole looked at her with a slightly punch-drunk smile.

“This stuff is good!”

“The herbs were freshly gathered this afternoon,” said Isdemus. “They were cultivated by one of our most talented plant specialists. I am sure the effects are superb.”

“Plant… specialist?” said Brock, also sounding a little woozy.

Gerald gestured to Lily, Cole, and Brock, suppressing a smile. “We’ll explain all about it tomorrow. Follow me.”

Cole and Brock stood up obediently, but Lily frowned and glanced in Peter’s direction for confirmation. Peter shrugged at her, not knowing what else to do. Truthfully, he was too preoccupied to care whether the other three managed to stay up with him and talk to Isdemus that night or not. All that mattered was that he got some answers.

Once they were alone, Isdemus turned to Peter, but said nothing. He seemed to be waiting for Peter to speak first.

Peter wanted to ask Isdemus about Bruce, but he was afraid of the answer. So instead, he said, “Kane made it sound like he’d been stalking me.”

Isdemus frowned. “Yes. Unfortunately, I believe that’s true.”

“Why? For how long?” Still not the question he really wanted to ask, but he was stalling.

“Since you were eleven.”

Peter momentarily forgot his question about Bruce and gawked at him. “You’re joking.”

“That would not be very funny,” said Isdemus calmly. “My sense of humor may arguably be peculiar, but it is not quite that poor.”

Peter drew in a deep, shaky breath. “Okay,” he said when he had digested this. “Why since I was eleven? I don’t remember doing anything particularly remarkable then.”

“I did not mean to imply that the Watchers have only been watching you from eleven, and by the by, a better term would be protecting rather than watching, in spite of our name. You asked me how long Kane had been watching you. The Watchers have been protecting you to the best of our ability all your life, and have been watching for your birth for approximately 1500 years.” Then he added pleasantly, “Would you like some cocoa?”

“Er – no, sir,” Peter managed to croak.

“Really? It’s the best you’ve ever tasted, I guarantee it,” Isdemus said, and set about to make them both a cup anyhow.

Peter watched him fuss with the china and teapot, which contained a liquid that looked like a melted chocolate bar, and felt like his brain was full of the low buzz of white noise. Finally, one question surfaced in his mind and he blurted it out before it could disappear again into the sea of confusion.

“Why have you been watching me all my life?”

Isdemus looked up. “Well, I suppose that’s as good a lead-in as any,” he said. He put the teapot down and said, “It might be easier if I show you, rather than tell you. Why don’t you come with me?”

Isdemus brushed past him without looking back, assuming that Peter would follow. They turned down the main corridor by which Peter and the others had come, but quickly ducked down a different passage, hung with battle-axes and tapestries that looked centuries old. They descended a flight of stairs and then another when finally they found themselves in, of all things, an art gallery.

“These are the Watchers of old,” said Isdemus, moving his arms about with a sweeping gesture. The paintings were massive, larger than life, and there were hundreds of them. “Our heritage. Those you see here are the oldest,” he indicated to those in front of them. “They were King Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table who survived the Battle of Salisbury Plain. After Camelot fell, they banded together to protect Arthur’s surviving infant son, William, forming the original Watchers. At the time, they called themselves The Order of the Paladin, a name that was later used by Charlemagne’s Twelve Peers in the fourteenth century. You may hear the word Paladin used as a name of one thing or another from time to time still. This, however,” he spun Peter around to face the wall behind him, “is what I wanted you to see.”

Peter’s jaw dropped.

The painting before him was of a young man, only a few years older than he was. He wore a simple blue, rather homely robe atop a brown tunic and breeches, and the outline of a scabbard and sword jutted out to his side. His eyes were blue-green with flecks of gold, and his hair was flaxen and wavy, with a sparse beard that had not properly filled out yet. He looked kind and intelligent, and there was a very simple gold crown on his forehead.

“King Arthur,” said Isdemus.

“He looks…” Peter swallowed, “just like me.”

“Now do you understand?” Isdemus asked gently.

Peter closed his eyes. He knew what Isdemus was implying. “The Legends,” he murmured.

Isdemus nodded encouragingly. “Go on. What do you remember of the stories Bruce has told you?”

Peter took a shaky breath to steady himself. “I remember… thousands of years ago, there was an evil king who called himself the Shadow Lord. He gained power on the Continent, and dominated the known world for generations. In the last days of the Roman Empire, the Shadow Lord heard the prophecy that another king would rise who would cast him out of the world of men with an enchanted sword.”

“Excalibur,” Isdemus said, nodding.

“That king turned out to be Arthur,” said Peter, glancing reluctantly at the painting. “Arthur did banish the Shadow Lord, but he died in the process, and Excalibur was lost. Nobody knows where it is now.”

Isdemus nodded again. “Very good,” he said. “As long as Excalibur remains intact, it prevents the Shadow Lord from returning to the world of men. What you may not know, however, is that according to the same prophecy that predicted Arthur’s ascent, one day the sword will be found and broken. Then the Shadow Lord will return, more powerful than ever before. The only one who will be able to stop him will be one of King Arthur’s descendants, known as the Child of the Prophecy.” His eyes bored into Peter’s blue-green ones, with the exact same flecks of gold as those in the painting.

Peter began to shake his head very slowly, to clear it. He gestured at the painting and said, “That doesn’t prove anything.”

Isdemus leaned on the top of his staff and considered this for a moment. He decided to try a different approach. “If I understand what happened correctly, tonight you performed what many would call a miracle, saving your own life and those of your friends as well. You broke the rules, Peter.”

“Excuse me?” Peter blustered. “What rules?”

“The rules of the universe.” Isdemus regarded him thoughtfully, and sighed. “I’m sorry that there is no more straightforward way to have this conversation. I had honestly hoped that having heard the Legends all your life might prepare you, but it seems we shall still have to do this the hard way…”

Peter swallowed. He had already guessed this, but he still trembled as he asked, “So… so you’re saying that was your idea? Telling me the Legends all my life?”

“I was the one who instructed Bruce to tell them to you from your infancy, yes. Even if you believed them to be fairy tales, I hoped that their familiarity might ease the transition when you finally learned the truth.”

“So my dad is one of you, then,” Peter repeated numbly. “He’s a Watcher.”

Isdemus seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then he admitted, “Yes, Bruce is a Watcher.” Before Peter could ask him more he pursed his lips and swept out of the gallery, leading the way back to the Great Hall. Peter followed mutely behind him, his mind’s eye still filled with the image of the young king.

When they reentered the Hall, Isdemus sat down and idly plucked two thick slices of bread from a platter and piled juicy slices of roast beef on top of them. Peter watched him, dimly aware that even though he didn’t feel like eating, his stomach told him that he was, in fact, ravenous.

As if reading his thoughts, Isdemus gestured to the platter and said, “Please,” with a small smile of invitation. Peter set about making his own sandwich automatically as his stomach growled, threatening to digest itself.

Isdemus chased the bite of sandwich with a gulp of cocoa and continued, “So, where were we? I believe we were discussing the rules of the universe. Along with the tales of your heritage, Bruce has done his best to instruct you regarding those rules, or at least as much as you could absorb.”

“You mean like the physical laws?” asked Peter weakly.

“Yes, that is what I mean. Those are the rules that you broke tonight: at least two and possibly three that I can think of. You broke the laws of gravity and entropy at least, and you might have altered time as well. I haven’t quite worked that one out yet.”

“No, I didn’t,” said Peter firmly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You can’t break the laws of gravity or entropy. They’re laws.”

“Ah. I see,” said Isdemus, smiling at him as a wizened grandfather might at an upstart young child.

“There has to be a scientific explanation for what happened tonight,” Peter insisted.

“There is. Would you like to hear it?”

Peter looked at him doubtfully, but nodded.

“Think of the universe as the surface of a pond, or... what are those odd little nets that kids jump on called again? The word escapes me.”

Peter stared at him blankly. “Trampolines?”

“Yes, yes, trampolines. Now, the trampoline cannot move itself, correct? The trampoline can only move if acted on by an outside force. But, let us suppose that somehow the trampoline did move. Anything sitting on top of the trampoline, not inside the fabric itself – in this case, the nimbi and the penumbra – would not only feel the vibrations, but could follow them to their origin, pinpointing the exact location of the jumper.”

“I do know a lot about String Theory, my dad tells me about his research every night,” said Peter. “That’s what you’re talking about, right?”

“Yes. But I am not quite as brilliant as you are, so you will have to indulge my metaphors,” said Isdemus. Peter couldn’t decide whether he was being condescending or not. “Now, until tonight, the trampoline has not moved since the dawn of time. So naturally, anyone sitting on top of the trampoline would be very curious to find out what made them bounce.”

Peter swallowed a bite of his sandwich without really tasting it. “So you’re saying that entire army of them showed up just because they were curious?”

“Not entirely, Peter. They have been waiting for you – both the penumbra and their Master. The Shadow Lord.”

Peter stared at him for a moment, at a loss for words. Then he shook his head in disbelief. “Waiting for me.”

Isdemus nodded patiently. “The Watchers are not the only ones who have been waiting for your birth all these years, Peter. But, we were at a great advantage, because in King Arthur’s day, the Shadow Lord did not know the second half of the prophecy. As you know, Arthur and his firstborn son Mordred struck one another dead at the Battle of Salisbury Plain, and from then on, the Shadow Lord believed that the line of the King was ended. They did not know that Arthur had another son. Thus, the Shadow Lord, and all the penumbra with him, believed that they had stopped you from ever being born.”

“Until tonight,” Peter said flatly. He felt very strange.

“Until tonight,” Isdemus confirmed.

There was the sound of a ticking of a clock somewhere behind them. Peter wondered that he hadn’t heard it before; it seemed so loud now. The fire had burned down to embers behind Isdemus, and he could tell from the columns of light filtering through the windows that the moon was high in the sky outside.

The buzz of white noise grew louder in Peter’s mind, and images came to him in flashes. He saw the silver Land Rover hanging over the windshield, the flashes of death in the images of the rainbow, and Kane’s contemptuous expression when he had first asked who he was. He saw the blond king in a homely robe, barely older than himself, looking back at him from the canvas with his own eyes, like a reflection in a mirror.

“Was he trying to kill us?” Peter said at last. “Kane?”

It took a moment for Isdemus to register the question. “I don’t know what he was trying to do,” he admitted at last, suddenly sounding very old and very tired. “I don’t believe he meant to kill you, though. He’s not as bad as all that. No, if I had to guess his motive, I think he was trying to prove that you are not the Child of the Prophecy after all.”

Peter started. “Is that in question, then?” he asked hopefully.

“Kane doubts it,” said Isdemus. His tone was evasive, and Peter caught it.

“But why does he doubt it?” Peter persisted. “He must have a reason!”

Isdemus looked away with a pained expression. Then he said, “I think that you have already had far too much for one day. I had better send for Gerald to take you to your room, and we can continue this tomorrow, once you have had some sleep.”

Peter ignored him. “Tell me the prophecy,” he demanded. “My dad never told me what it says…”

“Because I asked him not to,” said Isdemus firmly, and held up a hand. “You were too young to hear of such things. Now, I must ask you to trust me. You need rest – I doubt even you know how badly.”

Peter could see that there was no point in arguing. Suddenly Isdemus leaned forward and poured the last cup of the chamomile tea, though the liquid no longer steamed. He pushed the saucer towards Peter. After a moment’s hesitation, Peter took the saucer and slurped theatrically, hoping it sounded like he was actually swallowing. He dared not look at Isdemus’s face to see whether he noticed.

When he stood and turned around, Gerald was already in the doorway.

“Gerald, would you mind…?” Isdemus said.

Gerald bowed formally in acknowledgment. “Right this way, sir,” he said to Peter, and turned very precisely to lead Peter away.

“See you in the morning, Peter. Go and get your hundred and forty winks.”

Peter looked up sharply, and was surprised to see a hint of amusement in Isdemus’s eyes. His dad used that exact phrase before putting him to bed every night until he was about seven or eight. “If forty winks means a short sleep,” Bruce had explained, “then a hundred and forty ought to last the night!” Even now, he occasionally said it when they both happened to be in the same room at bed time.

Did even that come from Isdemus? Peter wondered with a pang.

Peter was grateful that Gerald walked swiftly and spoke little. They were off the main hallway now, climbing a winding spiral staircase, which seemed to have many adjacent, similar halls leading off it at each level. Here and there he saw other servants, and people he assumed must be other Watchers stopped to stare as they passed by. Other than a curt nod of his head, Gerald did not speak to any of them.

“Your friends are sleeping on the second floor,” Gerald said, pointing at the landing as they passed. “Servant’s quarters are in the basement. Isdemus’s chamber and office are adjacent, on the third floor. Here is the key to your room,” he said when they arrived, and handed Peter what looked like a brass skeleton key. “You should find everything laid out for you. The fire specialist wakes at 5 am to heat the water for the bath, so if you want to wash before that, I’m afraid it will be cold. You will find a dumbwaiter in the closet near the bed, and you can use it to alert me, should you discover anything you lack.”

“I’m sure it will be perfect,” said Peter, and faked a large yawn. “Thank you.”

Gerald arched one eyebrow at Peter, but he bowed again, and said, “Pleasant sleep, sir.”

“Good night, Gerald.”

Gerald disappeared around the corner. Peter tried his key in the door, stepped inside, and counted to ten. Then he pocketed the key and crept back out into the hallway.