The Still by David Feintuch Page A

find Pytor, and send for Rustin.” I strode to the steps. “I’ll bring you apples.”
    “Anything.” His voice was small. I started down the winding steps at a moderate pace, found myself leaping the last few treads. I dashed along the rampart, raced around the corner to the courtyard steps, cannoned into an armored figure, and sprawled with him in the dust.
    “Clumsy buffoon!” The guard snatched up his scattered gear. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” Then he caught a look at my face, and his jaw dropped.
    I staggered to my feet, my ribs afire. “Forgive me, Lanford. I was in a hurry.” Clutching my side, I staggered off.
    Fool. Ass. Imbecile. If my little brother Pytor was in danger, I deserved every name I’d been called, and more. I loped up the steps, through the great oaken doors to the donjon. Three flights to the nursery; I took them as fast as I could.
    It was vacant.
    The first room I’d try would be Elryc’s, then my own. Pytor would be in one of his usual hiding—I hurtled down the steps.
    “Aiee!” I averted a collision with the climbing figure, but slipped and rolled down half a flight, bumping ribs and buttocks on each cold stone step. From above Nurse Hester watched, incredulous.
    “That’s how you mourn your mother, eh? Galloping about the palace like a maddened—”
    “Where’s Pytor?”
    “He’s where Pytor goes when he would not be found. Why the sudden interest? For a year you’ve consigned him to—”
    “Have you seen him since the hill?”
    “Think you my legs take me faster than yours? I’m just returned. Why do you search for your brother?”
    “Hester ...” I hobbled up the steps. “Put aside our rancor for the moment.” I put my lips close to her ear. “Pytor’s in peril. When he returns, hide him, and send for me at once.” I turned to go. Her hand lashed out, grabbed my ear, twisted. I yelped, clawing at her iron grip.
    “Not so fast, Prince of Caledon.”
    “Let go my—”
    “What about my boy? Peril? How?” Her eyes held a glint I’d never seen.
    “Keep your voice dow—hargh!” My neck was cocked at an impossible angle. “Please, Nurse.” My words tumbled, lest she wrench off my ear. “Elryc says Uncle Mar sent soldiers to take him and Pytor. I don’t know what it means.”
    Her grip unlocked, and I was freed. She growled, “Where? And is Elryc safe?”
    “He’s in hiding. I was supposed to bring Pytor, but by the time I heard—”
    “He’d already run down the hill. It’s not your fault, Roddy.” Her wrinkled hand flicked out to pat my throbbing ear. “We’ll find him. You check the grounds; I’ll search the castle.”
    “Three stories, and cellars? That’s beyond you.”
    “I’m slow, but not crippled.” She sighed. “Still, you might be faster, once you get the knack of stairways. I’ll watch the nursery, your room and Elryc’s, and the Queen’s chambers. No one’s thought to bar me from them.” She sniffed. “My lady’s been gone only a day.”
    “Right.” I took her hand, squeezed it to cement the truce, limped off with what dignity I could muster.
    I prowled wine cellars and holds, kitchen and storerooms, all the places a small boy might dawdle, all the places I’d known as a child, a few seasons past.
    No Pytor.
    In the courtyard I spotted Genard, the stableboy. Not much older than Elryc, he sprouted new inches like a weed gone wild. I fished out a coin. “You. Run down the hill to Llewelyn’s keep. Ask for Rustin, tell him to come at once; I need him.”
    He eyed the copper dolefully. “Aye, but it’s an hour’s climb back up—”
    “Or I could have Griswold lash your rump; it’s all the same to me. Oh, don’t pout like that.” I sighed. “Here.” I handed him a second copper, and a third.
    Genard’s face brightened; he flicked a knuckle to his forehead. “Thank ye, youngsi—m’lord.”
    When he dashed off I roamed casually through stables, smithy, orchards, the myriad of alcoves