The Secret of the Swamp King (3 page)

King Darrow's trophy room echoed with the chatter of a dozen separate conversations as the hunting party relived the previous day's adventure in Tamside Forest. Servants were still loading the tables with side dishes and making last-minute preparations before the arrival of the king and chief huntsmen and the presentation of the game.

A hunt feast was the least formal of the regular feasts held at Tambluff Castle. The feasters—noblemen and servants alike—didn't wear their usual festal robes, but rather their hunting tunics and muddy hunting boots. Hunting dogs milled about the room, eagerly awaiting their own portion of roast boar, for they had been participants in the hunt, too, and were entitled to a place at the feast.

Lord Cuthbert was the only feaster who had not been a member of the hunting party. The oldest of Corenwald's Four and Twenty Noblemen, Cuthbert had grown too blind to gallop through the forest. But he was still a regular at the hunt feasts. On this night he sat between Lord Cleland and Lord Radnor, who filled him in on the details of the hunt.

“Oh, I wish you could have been there, Bertie!” Cleland enthused. His eyes were alight with the excitement of the hunt. “There has never been such a boar hunt in Corenwald!”

“We were loping through the bottomlands,” began Radnor, “the king and Wendell out in front, the boar dogs out in front of them.” Old Cuthbert leaned forward in his chair and gazed into the middle distance as he pictured the scene he had witnessed so many times with his own eyes.

Radnor continued. “We hadn't been in the forest an hour before the dogs began to sing.” Lord Cuthbert smiled wistfully at the memory of the dogs' throaty howl echoing in the cypress.

“We spurred our horses to catch up to the dogs,” said Cleland, leaning forward in his chair as if he were still in the saddle.

“We found them in a little clearing,” Radnor interrupted, unable to contain his enthusiasm, “and we saw that it wasn't one hog the dogs had jumped but a whole herd of them.”

“A tribe of them,” agreed Cleland. “A dozen or more
yearling pigs, seven or eight sows, and the biggest, blackest boar you ever saw.”

“He looked more like a black bull than a boar, he was so big,” added Radnor. “Except for those tusks. No bull ever had slashers like that.”

Cleland picked up the story again. “So we were pressing this herd of hogs—hard after them—and it was one big tangle, I tell you. There were more hogs than dogs, and the hounds couldn't agree which one they should bay up.”

Cuthbert listened intently. He imagined himself astride a hunting horse, crashing through the forests and swamps again.

“Meanwhile,” said Radnor, “the big boar decided it was time to save his own bristly hide and let the women and children fend for themselves.”

“Not very gentlemanly of him,” remarked Cuthbert.

“Maybe not,” answered Cleland, “but I've never been run down by a pack of boar dogs, so I won't say one way or another.”

“He broke off from the herd and came barreling back through the dogs and horses and men,” said Radnor, nearly out of his seat now. “Two of the dogs lunged at him, but he sent them flying. All the dogs stayed with the herd and let the daddy boar run back downriver.”

Cuthbert's face fell with disappointment. The boar dogs' cowardice broke his heart.

“Meanwhile, Aidan and Prince Steren wheeled their horses around and lit out after the boar hog,” continued Radnor.

Cuthbert snorted at the very idea. “Without dogs?” he huffed. “What did they think they were going to do with him if they caught him?”

“We're coming to that,” answered Radnor. “We pressed the chase, and in the end King Darrow managed to kill a couple of the yearling pigs.”

“Well, they'll be better eating than a tough old boar hog anyway,” Cuthbert remarked by way of consolation.

“But that's not all,” said Cleland. “When we got back to the castle, Aidan and Steren were waiting for us.”

“And they had the big boar hog,” added Radnor.

“Alive.” Cleland paused for effect. “Somehow they had managed to catch the boar, tie him up, and carry him out of the woods on a sapling pole.”

Cuthbert stared open-mouthed in Cleland's direction. “Impossible!” he said at last. “I don't believe you. Two boys can't catch a wild boar alive. Not without dogs.”

“Hard to believe, Cuthbert, I know,” said Radnor. “I wouldn't believe it either if I hadn't seen the hog with my own eyes.”

“They won't say how they did it,” added Cleland. “They say it's a secret.”

Cuthbert slumped back in his chair, amazed by what he had been told.

“I tell you, that Errolson boy is something special,” said Radnor. “Every time I turn around, he's done something I never thought anybody could do.”

“Well, don't forget,” said Cleland, “it wasn't just Aidan. The prince was with him too.”

Radnor raised his eyebrows. “You tell me, Cleland. Do you really think the prince would have come back with the hog if he hadn't been with Aidan Errolson?”

The conversation was cut short by the sound of a hunting horn, the sign that King Darrow would be taking his place at the head table along with the chief huntsmen—the hunters who had most distinguished themselves in the previous day's outing. And to no one's surprise, the chief huntsmen for this feast were Prince Steren and Aidan Errolson.

As the king and the two boys entered the trophy room, the feasters cheered raucously and stomped their heavy boots. Even the hunting dogs howled and wagged themselves sideways. The courtiers had grown to love Aidan almost as much as they loved their king. In three short years, Aidan had made himself a regular at the head table during hunt feasts. Time after time, his fellow hunters had elected him chief huntsman and seated him at the king's right hand.

“There's a surprise!” called one of the noblemen. “Aidan Errolson is at the head table again!”

“It's the king of the forest!” shouted another. “And King Darrow too!”

The feasters were in a back-slapping good humor, ready to laugh and enjoy themselves, and they laughed heartily at these and similar jokes. King Darrow stretched his mouth into a smile—or something like it—but clearly he was not as amused as the other feasters at this line of jesting. In the past few months, Darrow had grown cold
toward the young hero he had brought to his court. He no longer joined in when his noblemen sang Aidan's praises.

“One of these hunt feasts, we're going to put King Darrow at Aidan's right hand!” called another feaster.

Aidan watched Darrow's eyes narrow even as the lower half of his face continued to smile. He saw the king's jaw working as he ground his back teeth. Aidan quickly wiped the smile from his own face, hoping to discourage further jokes in this vein.

But immediately after the seating of the king and chief huntsmen came the presentation of the game, and with it came further reason for the king to be annoyed. Two liveried servants brought out the yearling pigs killed by Darrow's hunting party. Each was arranged in a bed of greenery on a silver platter, and each had an apple in its mouth. The feasters applauded politely as the pigs were placed on the head table in front of the king. They were nothing to be ashamed of, certainly. Two yearling pigs constituted a respectable bag for a morning's hunt.

But the applause swelled to a crescendo of cheering, whistling, and foot stomping when a trio of kitchen servants staggered into the trophy room under Steren's and Aidan's massive boar. It was roasted to a succulent brown, and in its snarling mouth an apple—the largest apple the cook could find—looked like a shriveled plum.

“Now that's a hog!” somebody shouted.

“Darrow should be ashamed of himself,” joked Lord Grady, “killing those little piglets when a monster like that was prowling his forest!”

The head table, made of thick slabs of black walnut, sagged under the weight of the three hogs, not to mention the pots and platters of vegetables.

From where they sat, the noblemen could hardly see the king for the mountain of roast hog the servants had placed in front of him. “Say, what happened to King Darrow?” called Lord Cleland. “Are you still there, Your Majesty?”

Aidan stole a quick glance at Darrow. The king was looking down at his plate, his mouth set in a tight line. He wasn't even pretending to be amused now. Aidan stared down at the table, counting the tines on his forks, tracing the pattern on his dinner plate. It had been a hard few months for Aidan. The more he grew in the noblemen's favor, the harder it was to please his king.

“Look,” laughed Lord Grady, “the great huntsman's ears are turning red!”

“Stop, Grady,” came the voice of another nobleman. “You're embarrassing him.” Aidan stared harder at his plate, praying that everyone's attention would soon shift elsewhere.

Suddenly, Aidan's plate lurched away from him like a boat that had drifted into a swift current. For a dizzying, disorienting moment, Aidan thought he was falling backward out of his chair. But Aidan wasn't tipping; the table was, tilting forward into the middle of the trophy room,
crashing heavily onto its side. Earthenware dashed to pieces on the sandstone floor, and peas, carrots, and potatoes scattered in all directions. Candle stands clattered to the floor, and broken, extinguished candles lay among the debris. The hunting dogs boiled over the overturned table to get at the roasted hogs that lay broken on the floor.

Everyone stared in astonished silence at King Darrow, who stood in his place at the center of the head table. His face was still red from the exertion of flipping the thick walnut table and its heavy contents—no small feat for a man in his midsixties. His black eyes were flashing, and his hands were clenched into fists at his sides.

“I am Darrow,” he said in a loud, clear voice that echoed around the trophy room. “I am king of Corenwald.”

The courtiers, recovering a little, rose quickly to their feet out of respect for their king. Darrow put a booted foot on the edge of the overturned table and tipped it so it was completely upside down. The heavy clap of the tabletop on the floor scattered the dogs. The king stepped across the table and into the space between the two remaining tables. He stood in front of Lord Grady and spoke to him with clipped words. “I am your king.”

Grady looked down at his hands, fumbling at his hunting tunic. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Darrow turned to the table behind him and walked to Lord Halbard. He reached across the table, grabbed a
handful of Halbard's coat, and pulled him close until their noses almost touched. He searched Halbard's face, as if he no longer recognized his old friend.
“I … am … your …
king!”
He spoke each word separately and distinctly, and his voice was raised to a near shout.

Halbard's eyes bulged with terror. “Y-yes, Your Majesty,” he stuttered.

Meanwhile, the dogs had begun fighting over the carcass of Aidan's boar, and the growling, snapping, yelping mass tumbled into King Darrow and got tangled under his feet. The king let go of Halbard and kicked at the dogs. He caught two by the scruff of the neck, one with each hand, before they could scamper away. He lifted the two dogs up to his own eye level and, shaking with rage, screamed at them:
“I am your king!”
He dropped the dogs, and they slunk off whimpering, their tails between their legs.

Darrow now turned his attention to Aidan. He stalked toward the head table, unmindful of the potatoes and peas that stuck to the bottom of his boots with each step. Standing on the planks of the overturned table, he towered over Aidan. “I am Darrow of Tambluff!” he thundered.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Aidan answered, looking down at his boots. His father had taught him never to make eye contact with an aggressive bear; it seemed fitting advice at this moment.

Darrow leaned even closer, and Aidan could feel his hot breath on his forehead. “Look at me when I'm talking to you!” bellowed the king.

Aidan raised his eyes to look into his king's, and he was startled by what he saw. Darrow's eyes bulged out of their sockets. White showed all around the black pupils. Darrow saw the horror in Aidan's face. “How dare you look me in the eye?” he shouted, even though he was only inches away. “I am your king!”

Aidan wasn't sure where to look. He couldn't please the king by looking down; he couldn't please him by looking him in the eye. He fixed his eyes on Darrow's chin. “Yes, Sire. You are my king. I have never once forgotten.”

King Darrow snorted. “You have forgotten many things, boy. You have forgotten every kindness I ever showed to you and your family. You have forgotten what you were when I brought you to Tambluff: a shepherd boy, the son of a father whose standing in the realm isn't what it used to be.”

Darrow's low, contemptuous chuckle was interrupted by the clear voice of Prince Steren. “No, Father.” Darrow wheeled around to face his son. But Steren wasn't cowed by his father's rage. “You are the one who has forgotten. Aidan's bravery saved your realm from the Pyrthen Empire. Is this your thanks for Aidan's service?”

“Quiet, you insolent pup!” spluttered Darrow. “You may be too foolish to see what this boy is doing, but I'm not.” He shot a quick, scornful look at Aidan. “He wants to be king. From the day he got here, he's done everything he could to steal away the loyalty of my noblemen.”

Aidan could feel hot resentment gather in a knot at his Adam's apple. But it wasn't only resentment he felt. He also felt the heartbreak and disappointment of injured love. No one in Corenwald was more devoted to King Darrow than Aidan was.

Darrow continued. “He has wheedled his way into your good graces, too, Steren, with his pretended friendship.”

“Pretended?” yelped the prince. “How can you even say—”

Darrow raised his hand for silence. He was speaking more softly now. His rage seemed to have spent itself. “Quiet, Son. You must see. It's not my throne that's in danger. It's yours. I'll live out my days as high king of Corenwald.” Darrow gestured toward Aidan behind him. “There's not much this schemer can do about that. But someday I will die. And do you think he'll just sit by and let you receive the crown of Corenwald without a fight?”

Darrow put a hand on either of Steren's shoulders. “You are a good and trusting soul. Too good. Too trusting.”

The king turned and faced Aidan, who was too bewildered to speak. “I, too, have trusted too much.” He spoke without emotion as he addressed Aidan. “I brought you into the bosom of my family. It would have been better to embrace a rattlesnake. At least a rattlesnake's venom works quickly. Yours is a slow poison.”

Aidan had withstood Darrow's rage bravely. But this quiet insult was more than he could bear. He stood
straight, his eyes fixed on Darrow's beard. But big tears welled in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.

Darrow was unmoved. He spoke to Aidan with a steely evenness. “Save your tears, boy. A crocodile can cry too. But that doesn't mean it won't eat a man alive.”

The king reached into a pouch that hung at his side and pulled out a piece of folded palmetto paper with a broken wax seal. Without prelude or explanation he began to read it:

At the mention of feechiefolk, Steren gasped, remembering his own run-in with Dobro Turtlebane the day
before. But Darrow paid him no attention and kept reading the last paragraph of the letter.

All the color drained from Aidan's face as the king read. It was a lie, of course, but it contained just enough truth to make it hard to answer. Yes, he had come to believe that he was destined to be the Wilderking, but that realization had been thrust upon him. He had never wanted such a destiny, had certainly never schemed to put himself in that position. Yes, he claimed to have killed a panther; yes, he claimed to know feechiefolk. But never had he shown (or even felt) anything less than perfect loyalty to the House of Darrow. He stood mute under the glare of his king.

Darrow turned to the assembled courtiers. “See?” he said, gesturing at Aidan with one hand and waving the letter in the other. “He doesn't even deny it.”

For the first time since Darrow's outburst, one of the noblemen spoke. “Your Majesty,” said Lord Aethelbert cautiously, “these are very serious accusations. An anonymous letter is not the same thing as evidence.”

Darrow fixed Aethelbert with a withering glare. “Ah yes, Aethelbert. On the boy's side, are you?” He looked around the trophy room at the other noblemen. “Does anyone else wish to throw in his lot with these two traitors?”

The room remained silent. No one else was willing to take on the king when he was in this irrational frame of mind. Aidan looked imploringly from face to face, but no one, not even Steren, would meet his gaze.

Finally Aidan spoke. His voice was choked with emotion. “I have only ever loved you, my king.” Darrow gazed blankly at him. Aidan tried again. “Your Majesty, I have desired only to serve you and your house.” Darrow looked away, staring into the distance as if he had heard nothing.

“Command me, my king.” Aidan's tone was plaintive. “How can I prove my loyalty to you?”

King Darrow still stared into the distance, but his eyes narrowed slightly as he mulled his options. Aethelbert was right. He didn't have hard evidence against the boy, even if he was sure of his guilt. Still, evidence or no evidence, he couldn't afford to have the boy at his court any longer. He believed what he had said to Steren: Even if the boy weren't a threat to Darrow's own kingship, he was a serious threat to his hopes for Steren. And yet he couldn't have the boy killed or banished. The Four and Twenty Nobles would never let him get away with that. Maybe he could use the boy's professed loyalty against him.

At last the king turned to Aidan. “I suppose you've noticed I suffer bouts of melancholy.”

Aidan just listened, choosing not to acknowledge how obvious the king's depressive episodes had become.

“My medics and chemists have tried everything that might offer me some relief,” continued the king. “But nothing seems to help. There is one last treatment—a certain cure—but they lack the only ingredient.”

“Is it something I can get for you?” asked Aidan hopefully.

“Perhaps you can. The old lore promises one sure cure for melancholy: the essence of the frog orchid. Bring me a live frog orchid, and I will have no reason to doubt your loyalty.”

“A frog orchid?” barked Lord Cleland. “I know a little of the old lore, too, Darrow. The frog orchid grows only in the depths of the Feechiefen Swamp.” Darrow nodded knowingly but without apparent concern. Cleland continued. “Nobody has ever come back alive from the Feechiefen Swamp!”

But Aidan was relieved to have been offered the chance to prove his loyalty, even if the offer came in the form of a seemingly impossible task. “I'll leave first thing in the morning.”

Lord Cleland wouldn't let it lie. “You're sending Aidan to his death, and you know it!” he protested.

“You weren't so squeamish three years ago, when the boy offered to fight the giant on the Bonifay Plain,” Darrow retorted. “What was it you said, Cleland? ‘If the boy wants to die for his country, why not let him?'”

Cleland was ashamed of the words he spoke the first time he ever met Aidan Errolson on the battlefield at Bonifay. But he couldn't deny them.

“Well, if the boy wants to die for his king,” continued Darrow, “why not let him?”

But Aidan wasn't there to hear this exchange. He was already headed toward his sleeping quarters to pack a bag for his trip to Feechiefen.

* * *

Aidan was nearly finished packing when the door swung open and Prince Steren stepped into the room. He looked at the backpack on Aidan's bed, and his face filled with horror. “You're not really …” he began. “Into the Feechiefen?”

Aidan didn't answer but kept packing.

“Don't do this,” Steren pleaded. “You know how Father is. Tomorrow he will have forgotten all about this. Why don't you go away for a few days? Go see your father and brothers at Longleaf. Father will be all right.”

“It's been a long time since your father's been all right,” Aidan answered. “Toward me anyway. He's lost faith in me, Steren. I can't stay here if my king has no faith in me. Yet I cannot bear to leave the court of Darrow. I must complete this quest.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, Aidan added, “Besides, if the essence of the frog orchid really does cure your father's melancholy, that will be a service to the whole kingdom.”

“But nobody ever comes back from the Feechiefen,” Steren persisted. “What makes you think you will?”

Aidan rolled back his sleeve to expose a red scar in the shape of an alligator on his right forearm. “That's the feechiemark,” he said. “It means any feechie I meet is obliged by their code of honor to be a friend to me.”

“Like Dobro,” Steren observed.

“That's right,” answered Aidan. “By the providence of the One God, I believe the feechies will see me through the Feechiefen.”

“Do you even know how to get into the Feechiefen?” Steren asked.

“Just what we all learned in geography lessons,” said Aidan. “Follow the Tam to Last Camp and turn south. You can't miss it. But I'll stop by Longleaf tomorrow to see what my brother Jasper can tell me. He knows the old lore backward and forward.”

Both boys were silent for a moment, then Steren spoke up with the determined voice of a person not accustomed to being told no. “I'm coming with you, Aidan.”

Aidan shook his head. “No, Steren. This is my mission.”

“But you're my best friend,” Steren insisted. “I can't let you face that kind of danger alone.”

“We may be best friends,” said Aidan, “but your responsibilities to Corenwald outweigh your friendship to me. You're the crown prince, King Darrow's only heir. You can't go galloping off to the Feechiefen Swamp.”

Steren saw Aidan's point. “I'll pray for you, Aidan,” he said. “Every day.” He turned to leave, then stopped.

“Was any of it true, Aidan? About you believing that you're the Wilderking?”

It was a hard question for Aidan to answer. So he answered another question instead: “No one has ever been more loyal to the House of Darrow than I am.”