The Eyes of the Dragon by Stephen King
Thomas had always excelled at archery. Although he rarely hunted, he had gone often to the archery ranges during the years of Peter's imprisonment, and, drunk or sober, he had his father's eye. He had a fine yew bow, but he had never drawn one like this. It was light and limber, and yet he felt an amazing strength in its lancewood bolt. It was a huge but graceful weapon, eight feet from end to end, and he did not have room to draw fully while sitting down; yet he pulled its ninety-pound draw with no strain at all.
Foe-Hammer was perhaps the greatest arrow ever made, its bolt of sandalwood, its three feathers honed from the wing of an Anduan peregrine, its tip of flashed steel. It grew hot at the draw; he felt its heat bake his face like an open furnace.
"You told me only lies, magician," Thomas said softly. He released.
The arrow flew from the bow. As it crossed the room, it passed directly through the center of Leven Valera's locket, which still dangled from the stunned Peter's outstretched fist. The gold chain parted with a tiny chink! sound.
As I have told you, ever since that night in the north forests when he and the troop he had commanded had camped following their fruitless expedition in search of the exiles, Flagg had been plagued by a dream he couldn't remember. He always awoke from it with his hand pressed to his left eye, as if he had been wounded there. The eye would burn for minutes after he awoke, although he could find nothing wrong with it.
Now the arrow of Roland, bearing the heart-shaped locket of Valera on its tip, flew across Roland's sitting room and plunged into that eye.
Flagg screamed. The two-bladed axe dropped from his hands, and the haft of that blood-soaked weapon shattered apart once and for all when it struck the floor. He staggered backward, one eye glaring at Thomas. The other had been replaced by a golden heart with Peter's blood drying at the tip. From around the edges of that heart, some stinking black fluid--it was most assuredly not blood--dribbled out.
Flagg shrieked again, dropped to his knees--
--and suddenly he was gone.
Peter's eyes widened. Ben Staad cried out. For a moment Flagg's clothes held his shape; for a moment the arrow hung in empty air with the pierced heart dangling from it. Then the clothes crumpled and Foe-Hammer clattered to the cobbles. Its steel tip was smoking. So it had smoked, long ago, when Roland pulled it from the dragon's throat. The heart glowed a dull red for a moment, and forever after its shape was branded into the stones where it fell when the magician disappeared.
Peter turned to his brother.
Thomas's unearthly calm broke apart. No longer did he look like Roland; he looked like a scared and horribly tired little boy.
"Peter, I'm sorry," he said, and he began to cry. "I am sorrier than you will ever know. You'll kill me now, I guess, and I deserve to be killed--yes, I know I do--but before you do, I'll tell you something: I've paid. Yes, I have. Paid and paid and paid. Now kill me, if such is your pleasure."
Thomas raised his throat and closed his eyes. Peter walked toward him. The others held their breaths, their eyes wide and round.
Gently, then, Peter pulled his brother from his father's chair and embraced him.
Peter held his brother until the storm of his weeping had passed, and told him that he loved him and would always love him; then both wept, there below the dragon's head with their father's bow at their feet; and at some point, the others stole from the room and left the two brothers alone.
142
Did they all live happily ever after?
They did not. No one ever does, in spite of what the stories may say. They had their good days, as you do, and they had their bad days, and you know about those. They had their victories, as you do, and they had their defeats, and you know about those, too. There were times when they felt ashamed of themselves, knowing that they had not done their best, and there were times when they knew they had stood where their God had meant them to stand. All I'm trying to say is that they lived as well as they could, each and every one of them; some lived longer than others, but all lived well, and bravely, and I love them all, and am not ashamed of my love.
Thomas and Peter went to Delain's new Judge-General together, and Peter was taken back into custody. His second stint as a prisoner of the Kingdom was much shorter than the first--only two hours. It took Thomas fifteen minutes to tell his tale, and the Judge-General, who had been appointed with Flagg's approval and who was a timid little creature, took another hour and three-quarters to verify that the terrible magician was really gone.
Then all charges were overturned.
That evening all of them--Peter, Thomas, Ben, Naomi, Dennis, and even Frisky--met in Peter's old rooms. Peter poured wine all around, even giving Frisky some in a little dish. Only Thomas declined the vintage.
Peter wanted Thomas to stay with him, but Thomas insisted--rightly, I think--that if he stayed, the citizens would tear him apart for what he had allowed to happen.
"You were only a child," Peter said, "controlled by a powerful creature who terrified you."
With a sad grin, Thomas replied: "That is partly true, but people would not remember that, Pete. They'd remember Tommy Tax-Bringer, and come for me. They'd tear through stone to get to me, I think. Flagg's gone, but I'm here. My head is a silly thing, but I've decided I'd like to keep it on my shoulders a while longer." He paused, seemed to debate, and then went on. "And I'm best away. My hate and jealousy were like a fever. It's now gone, but after a few years of being in your shadow as you ruled, I might relapse. I've come to know myself a little bit, you see. Yes--a little bit. No; I must leave, Peter, and tonight. The sooner the better."
"But . . . where will you go?"
"On a quest," Thomas said simply. "To the south, I think. You may see me again, but you may not. I'll go south on a quest. . . . I have many things on my conscience, and much to atone for."
"What quest?" Ben asked.
"To find Flagg," Thomas replied. "He's out there, somewhere. In this world or in some other, he's out there. I know it; I feel his poison in the wind. He got away from us at the last second. You all know it, and I do, too. I would find him and kill him. I would avenge our father and make up for my own great sin. And I would go into the south first, for I sense him there."
Peter said, "But who'll go with you? I can't--there's too much to do here. But I won't just allow you to go alone!" He looked very concerned, and if you had seen a map of those days, you would have understood his expression, for the south was nothing but a great white space on the maps.
Surprising all of them, Dennis said: "I would go, my Lord King."
Both brothers looked toward him, surprised. Ben and Naomi also turned, and Frisky looked up from her wine, which she was lapping with cheerful enthusiasm (she liked the smell, which was a cool, velvety purple; not as good as the taste, but almost).
Dennis blushed mightily, but he didn't sit down.
"You were always a good master, Thomas, and--beggin' your pardon, King Peter--something inside me says you're my master still. And since I was the one to find that mouse and send you to the Needle, my King--"
"Bosh!" Peter said. "That's all forgotten."
"Not by me, it ain't," Dennis said stubbornly. "You could say I was young, too, and didn't know no better, but maybe I've my own mistakes to atone for."
He looked at Thomas, shyly.
"I would come with you, Lord Thomas, if you would have me; I would be at your side in your quest."
On the verge of tears, Thomas said: "I will have you and welcome, good old Dennis. I only hope you can cook better than can."
They left that very night, under cover of darkness--two figures on foot, their packs heavy with supplies, wending their way into the night. They looked back once and waved.
All three of them waved back. Peter was weeping as if his heart would break; indeed, he thought it might.
I'll never see him again, Peter thought.
Ah, well--perhaps he did, and perhaps he didn't; but I rather think he did, you know. All I can tell you i
But now the hour is late, and all of that is another tale, for another day.
Stephen King, The Eyes of the Dragon
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