The boy gazed up at the castle. Its shining white marble walls were wet with the spray from the seven waterfalls that flowed on either side of it, four to the north and three to south, and glistened in the early-morning sun. Rainbows shimmered and danced around the castle walls. The peasants believed the rainbows were fine cloth spun by fairies, and more than one silly lad had gone to his death in the tumbling water trying to snag them.

The boy knew better. He knew that rainbows were not substantial, being made of nothing more than sunlight and water. Only that which exists in both the darkness and in the light is real. The boy had been taught to believe only in what was real and substantial.

The boy looked at the castle without much feeling, good or bad, nothing but a sort of uncaring fatalism that is often seen in ill-used dogs. Not that the boy had been particularly ill-used in his life, if to be ignored is not to be ill-used. He was about to leave his parents and his home and enter into a new life and by rights he should have felt sad, homesick, frightened, and trepidatious. He felt none of those: only tired, from the long walk, and uncomfortably warm and itchy in his new woolen stockings.

He and his father stood before the gate set in a high outer wall. Beyond the gate was a courtyard and beyond the courtyard myriad steps leading up into the castle, which had been built against a cliff. The castle looked out to the west, gazing out over Lake Ildurel, its back planted solidly against the rocks to the east. Its very topmost turrets were level with the River Hammerclaw, which flowed from east to west and whose rushing water, tumbling over the cliff face, created the rainbows.

The castle walls were white marble -- the boy had once seen a representation of the castle at a feast, made of sugar lumps -- and it was several stories tall. How many stories the boy could not count because the castle roamed all over the cliff face. So many turrets jutted off every which way, so many battlements slanted off in such different directions, and so many small lead-paned glass windows winked in the sunlight that the sight confused him. He had wanted to play with the sugar castle, and his mother had told him he might, but the next morning he found it had been eaten by mice.

The boy gazed, awed, at this castle, which was not made of sugar and not likely to be eaten by mice or even dragons. One wing of the castle caught his eye. This was a wing to the east, overlooking the four waterfalls. Atop it was a turret larger than all the rest, with a balcony that stretched around it. That was the King's Walk, said his father. King Tamaros, blessed of the gods, was the only person permitted to walk that balcony.

The King must be able to see the whole world from there, the boy thought. Or if not the whole world, then at least the entire great city of Vinnengael. The boy could practically see the whole city himself, just standing on the palace steps.

Vinnengael was built on three levels, the lowest level being even with the lake, which stretched to the horizon, its distant shore just barely visible from the King's Walk. The second level of the city was built atop a cliff that rose up from the first level. The third level was built atop another cliff, which rose from the second. The palace stood on the third level. Across from the palace, behind the boy and across a vast marble courtyard, was the Temple of the Magi.

Temple and palace, the heart of the kingdom and its head, were the only two major structures standing on the third level. Soldiers' barracks occupied the north; the barracks were attached to the palace. To the south, built on a jutting rock groin, were the elegant houses of the foreign ambassadors.

The men-at-arms guarding the outer gate gave the boy's father a bored glance as the two of them passed through. The boy craned his neck to gaze up at the huge portcullis, with its rows of grim teeth. He would have liked to stop, hoping to see some blood, for he was well acquainted with the tale of Nathan of Neyshabur, one of the heroes of Vinnengael, who had ordered the portcullis to be lowered though he himself was standing beneath it, fending off the kingdom's enemies, refusing to give ground though the wicked teeth thundered down upon him. Nathan of Neyshabur had lived and died several hundred years ago, when the city and the castle, but not the rainbows, were young. It was therefore unlikely that his blood would still be dripping from the portcullis, but the boy felt disappointed, nonetheless.

His father yanked at the boy's mantle and demanded to know what he thought he was doing, gawking like an ork during festival time, and hustled the boy along.

They walked across a vast courtyard and entered the castle proper, where the boy was immediately lost. His father knew the way well, however, being one of the King's courtiers, and he led the boy up marble stairs and down marble halls and around marble statues and past marble columns until they reached an antechamber, where the father shoved the boy down onto a carved wood chair and summoned a servant.

The boy gazed at the high ceilings, stained with soot from the winter fires, and at the wall opposite, where hung a tapestry that depicted long-bodied, long-snouted, long-eared dogs that resembled no known dog then living and people all turned sideways hunting a stag which, by its expression, appeared to be enjoying it all immensely though it had six arrows in it.

A man entered the antechamber, a youngish, bad-tempered, grim-looking man clad in a high-collared tunic, buttoned down the front, of rich design, with long flowing sleeves. His legs, visible from the calf down, were thick and bulky, his ankles being nearly as wide as his feet. His hose were of different colors, one red and the other blue to match the red-and-blue design in the tunic. His drab hair was combed back in the current fashion among humans and curled around the neck; he was clean-shaven.

The boy's father was dressed in a similar manner, though he wore a surcoat over his tunic, and his colors were green and blue. The boy was dressed the same as his father, except that his mantle and hood covered his clothes, for the season was late autumn and the air was chill. The man conferred briefly with the boy's father, then turned his gaze upon the boy.

"What did you say his name was?"

"Gareth, Lord Chamberlain."

The chamberlain sniffed. "I do not know when I have seen an uglier child."

"Any child would appear ugly compared to His Highness," said the boy's father.

"True, m'lord," said the chamberlain. "But this one appears to have worked at it 'specially."

"His Highness and my son are the same age to the day, born the very same night. Her Majesty wished--"

"Yes, yes. I am familiar with Her Majesty's wishes," said the chamberlain, rolling his eyes and tucking his thumbs in his wide leather belt to indicate that he thought Her Majesty's wishes a crockful of crap. He frowned down at the boy. "Well, there's no help for it, I suppose. As if I didn't have enough trouble. Where are the rest of the lad's clothes? You don't expect us to clothe him, I assume."

"My retainer is bringing them around the back," said the boy's father with a hint of frost. "Surely, you didn't expect us to cart them through the streets."

The two men regarded each other with ice-rimed stares, then the chamberlain placed his thick leg and pointed shoe in front of the other leg and bowed from the waist. "Your servant, sir."

The boy's father also "made a leg" as the saying went, his hands at his waist so that the surcoat did not fall forward and pick up dirt from the floor. "Your servant, sir."

The boy stood in his hood and mantle, hot and itchy, and stared at the stag with the six arrows sticking out of its side, kicking up its heels and looking very merry.

"Come with me, then, Gareth," said the chamberlain in resigned tones. "Say good-bye to your father," he added indifferently.

Gareth bowed to his father in a courtly manner, as he had been taught. His father gave the boy a hurried blessing and left quickly, to attend His Majesty. Neither father nor son was saddened at this parting. It had been a six-month since the boy had last seen his father, as it was. The fact that the boy was now a member of the court meant that he would likely see his noble parents more often than at any other time in his childhood.

The chamberlain laid a heavy hand upon the boy's shoulder and steered him through the palace rooms.

"These are the private quarters for the royal family," explained the chamberlain in sonorous tones. "They will be your home, too, from this day forward. To be chosen as the prince's whipping boy is a high honor. I trust you are sensible of it."

Gareth was not sensible of much of anything at the moment, except the man's heavy hand pressing him into the marble floor and making his shoulder ache exceedingly.

"The position was much coveted," the chamberlain continued, his words pressing down on the boy with as much weight as his hand. "Many fine lads were put forward as candidates, lads of sixteen and some even older. Much coveted," he repeated.

Gareth knew this to be true. His father and his mother and even Nanny had ground the fact into him over and over, until it seemed a part of his flesh, like the charcoal ground into the smithy's hands. The whipping boy bore the prince's punishment, because the prince, chosen by the gods, could never be touched in anger by mortal hands. The whipping boy also served as companion to the young prince, and was educated alongside the prince. Since the two would grow up together, the whipping boy and his family must naturally profit from such an arrangement.

Gareth was also well aware that he had not merited this honor. His father was a lord, but not a very important lord; his mother one of the Queen's ladies-in-waiting. The coincidence of the boy's birth being on the same night as that of the young prince was all that had recommended him.

Her Majesty the Queen came from Dunkarga, a kingdom to the west. It seemed that the people of Dunkarga held the belief that the stars affected their lives. Gareth knew this was nonsense; his father had told him as much. How could far-distant, coldly sparkling objects, as big as motes of dust, have an effect on mankind? But Gareth's parents had been quick to take advantage of the fact that Queen Emillia believed that the stars took an interest in her.

Hearing of the search for a whipping boy, Gareth's mother had hinted to the Queen that only a child born under the same stars as the prince should be considered worthy of sharing the prince's destiny. The Queen was quite taken with this notion and called for the royal astrologer, whom she had brought with her from Dunkarga. His hand fingering the coins in his purse deposited by Gareth's father, the royal astrologer solemnly confirmed that this was indeed the case. Gareth being the only child of noble blood born that night (his father had checked to make certain), he was chosen.

At the age of nine, Gareth was to take his place at court and start upon the performance of his new duties, which would be to bear the punishment for the prince's infractions. As they walked through the palace, Gareth recalled the story, which his mother often told, of how the Queen -- on hearing that one of her ladies-in-waiting was also in labor and about to give birth -- had ordered that his mother's legs be tied together, so that no other child should precede her son in anything. His mother's pains had fortunately stopped -- scared out of her, likely enough -- or it was probable that Gareth would not be walking the palace halls this moment. His mother's labor having started up again after the prince's arrival, Gareth was born three hours later. His first cries were drowned out by the explosions of the celebratory fireworks.

Gareth's mother had handed him off to a wet nurse the very night he was born, so that, after her lying-in period, she could return to her duties as lady-in-waiting. He was raised at his father's country estate, brought up mostly by servants, who had either indulged the boy or neglected him as the whim took them.

Thus in his fourth year, Gareth's parents, on one of their rare visits to their son, were dismayed to find their child a spoiled brat, a little hooligan, as dirty and uneducated as any peasant child of similar years. Gareth's father sent for his own former nursemaid, who had retired to help her husband make cloth. Now a widow, she was glad to hand over the business to her grown sons and enter, once again, a noble household.

She took Gareth in hand and taught him to read and write and provided him with the manners he would need when he was old enough to take his place at court. Gareth missed Nanny at that moment far more than he missed either his father or his mother. Her task done, she had been sent back to her family.

"Do you say your prayers, Master Gareth?" the chamberlain asked suddenly.

"I do, my lord," Gareth replied in a small voice, the first words he had spoken.

"Then say them, now, young sir. Pray to the gods that His Highness takes a liking to you, for if he does not, Her Majesty will be rid of you, stars or no stars."

Gareth peered out from under the folds of his hood, looked again at the soot-stained ceiling. The gods were somewhere up there, beyond the soot and the marble. Like the rainbows, the gods could not be touched. Gareth didn't think they would be much interested in him. Besides, his only prayer at that moment would have been to go back home, which would have made his parents exceedingly angry, and so Gareth considered it better not to pray at all.

The palace was a grand confusion to Gareth. He seemed to have been walking through it for most of his life; though it was probably only an hour since he had entered the main gate. He would come to love the palace, love its cool, serene beauty, love its mysterious alcoves and secret passages, but that would happen much later, after he'd recovered from homesickness and the fear of sleeping in a strange place, and after he'd learned his way around, which took him almost a year. For now, the palace was immense, cold and empty corridors that led to immense, cold rooms filled with massive, heavy furniture, everything tinged with the scent of woodsmoke.

"His Highness is here, in the playroom," said the chamberlain.

Two guards -- the prince's bodyguards -- flanked a large wooden door. Gareth had seen the King's Guard only on parade days and then only from a distance. Clad in their shining plate armor and chain mail, they appeared enormous in his sight, ferocious beings, who inspected him thoroughly from top to toe, searching him for weapons, thrusting their hands beneath his velvet doublet and even peering at the insides of his small shoes.

Gareth held still and meekly submitted to the indignity. Somewhere in the past some rival chieftain had sent in his young son, armed with a dagger, to stab the royal heir.

"He's clean," said the guard, and opened the door.

The chamberlain nodded and, grabbing Gareth again by the shoulder, ushered him into the playroom. As they were walking across the threshold, the chamberlain leaned over to whisper harshly, "Don't touch any of His Highness's toys. Don't look at any of His Highness's books. Don't fidget, don't pick your nose, don't gape or pass wind or stare out the window. Don't speak unless you are spoken to. Do not sit in the prince's presence, never turn your back upon him, for that is a terrible insult. If you must use the privies, ask His Highness's permission to be excused. When you are whipped, scream loudly and cry a great deal in order to impress upon His Highness how much the beating hurts him."

The numbness, which had carried Gareth this far, gave way to despair. If the gods had been anywhere near at the time, Gareth would have prayed -- not to leave the palace, for it seemed hopeless to him that he should ever find his way out -- but to simply die on the spot.

He could not look at any of the wonders around him -- marvelous toys, from all parts of Loerem. He took no interest in the shelves of books, though he loved reading and had read over and over all two of his father's books -- given to his father as gifts, he had never been known to look at them. Gareth did not even see His Highness, for the whipping boy's eyes were filled with tears and it was all he could do to stumble alongside the chamberlain and not fall over any of the clutter that filled the playroom.

The chamberlain's hand shoved Gareth into the floor.

"His Royal Highness, Dagnarus, Prince of Vinnengael."

Gareth sank to his knees, mindful of his father's teaching. He had an impression of somebody coming up to take a look at him, as one inspects a pig at market.

"Leave us," said a voice, imperious, even then.

Gareth thought, of course, that the prince meant him. He was only too glad to comply. Leaping to his feet, he was ready to bolt. A hand -- his hand, the prince's hand -- grabbed hold of his sleeve, however, and held him fast.

"I said leave us," the prince repeated, and Gareth understood that the prince was speaking to the chamberlain.

"But, Your Highness, you know nothing of this boy--"

"Are you forcing me to give you an order three times?" the prince asked with an edge to his tone that made Gareth shiver.

"As Your Highness commands," said the chamberlain, bowing very low and backing out of the room. Not an easy feat, considering the floor was littered with hobbyhorses and toy ships and chariots and child-size shields and spears.

He shut the door, and Gareth was alone with his prince.

Blinking back his tears, he saw him, and, in that moment, he feared him.

The two boys were equal in height then, though Dagnarus would be taller when he came to manhood. He was large-boned, whereas Gareth was slimmer, and so the prince seemed bigger to the whipping boy. The prince's auburn hair -- the color of the leaves of the sugar maple in the autumn -- was thick and heavy and cropped close around his face in the fashion of the time. His skin was pale with a smattering of freckles over his nose, the only flaw to his flawless complexion.

His eyes were green, flecked with gold, large and brilliant, framed by russet eyelashes that made it seem as if they were gilded with burnished gold. He was dressed in a green doublet and hose that brought out the red of his hair and deepened the green of his eyes. He was well formed, strongly built, with remarkable strength -- for a child -- in his hands.

The green eyes went over every inch of the whipping boy, inspecting him much more thoroughly than the guards outside the door. Gareth remembered everything he wasn't supposed to do, but no one had told him yet what he was to do. Unhappy, uncomfortable, overawed, humiliated, he cowered before this calm, self-possessed, beautiful child and, seeing his inadequacies reflected in those wonderful eyes, wished again that he might die.

"What is your name, boy?" Dagnarus asked, and though the voice was still imperious, it was not unkind.

Gareth could not answer for the tears in his throat.

"Are you mute or deaf, boy?" the prince demanded. He was not impatient or sarcastic, merely requiring information.

Gareth shook his head and managed to blurt out his name. With what little courage he had left, he lifted his head and peeped at the prince warily.

Reaching out his hand, Dagnarus touched Gareth's face, rubbed his cheek. He drew his hand back, looked at his fingers, and looked back at the whipping boy.

"It doesn't come off," the prince said.

"No, Your -- Your Highness," Gareth stammered. "I was born with it. A curse."

Other children of Gareth's acquaintance had either mocked him or run from him. Dagnarus did neither. He would never run from anything. And he would always look a truth in the face, no matter how ugly.

"A curse?" Dagnarus repeated.

The green eyes brightened. The prince drew Gareth over to a pair of chairs, made to child size, which stood beside a child-size table. Several books had been shoved off the table, to make room for a miniature catapult, carved of wood, with which he had been firing peas over a wall made of blocks. Gareth's gaze went hungrily to the books. Dagnarus's gaze went proudly to the catapult.

In that moment, the two were defined.

Dagnarus sat down. Mindful of his instructions, Gareth remained standing.

"Tell me of the curse," Dagnarus ordered. He never made a request, everything was a command.

Shyly, Gareth began, "Yes, Your Highness. It seems that when my mother was--"

"Why don't you sit?" the prince interrupted.

"I was told not to, Your Highness," Gareth said, feeling his marred face burn.

"Who told you? That great idiot?" The prince dismissed the chamberlain with a snort. "Ignore him. I always do. Sit down in that chair."

"Yes, Your Highness." Timidly, Gareth sat down. "It seems that when my mother was--"

"And you must not call me 'Your Highness,' " said the prince.

Gareth looked at him helplessly.

"You must call me Dagnarus," the prince said. He put his hand on Gareth's, and added, "You will be my friend."

In that moment, Gareth loved him, as he had never before loved anyone or anything.

"Now." Dagnarus settled back, folded his arms across his chest. "Tell me of this curse."

"It was when my mother was carrying me in her belly," Gareth said. This story was another one of his earliest recollections, and he knew it by rote. He spoke at first shyly and hesitantly, but, finding an interested listener, he gathered more confidence and was eventually talking quite volubly. "She was in the marketplace, on an errand for the Queen, your mother, and there was a beggar woman sitting on the corner. She asked my mother for a coin for food. My mother had no coins to give; the only money she carried belonged to the Queen. My mother said as much and was walking on when the beggar woman cursed her. I kicked in my mother's belly very hard and my mother knew then that the beggar woman was a witch and that her curse had struck me.

"My mother summoned the city guards, and they arrested the witch. She was tied hand and foot and thrown into the river, where she floated a long time, which my mother says proved that she was a witch. The people threw rocks at the witch, and eventually she sank. The midwife said my mother was to drink rose hip tea, to wash off the curse, but it didn't work. I was born with this on my face."

The large purplish blotch surrounded Gareth's left eye, crawled up onto his forehead and down onto his left cheek. His nondescript brown hair was cut into bangs across his forehead, to hide that portion of the mark, but there was no hiding the mark around his eye or on his cheek.

He could not recall the number of potions and ointments, salves and creams the servants used at his mother's behest to try to rid his face of the curse. And although several took off his skin, they had done nothing to remove the mark. One enterprising serving lass had even tried sanding it off. Fortunately, Nanny had heard his shrieks and come to his rescue.

"Do people make sport of you?" Dagnarus asked, staring at the mark.

Usually Gareth didn't like to be stared at, but the prince wasn't like the rest, he wasn't mocking or sniggering. Dagnarus was merely curious.

"Sometimes, Your Highness," Gareth admitted.

"They won't do so anymore," Dagnarus stated with finality. "I shall order them not to. If anyone does, you must tell me immediately. I will have the person executed."

The prince was showing off. Gareth was not completely ignorant of the ways of the court, and even he knew that a nine-year-old prince did not possess life-and-death power over others. But Gareth was touched and pleased, if not with the sentiment, then with the feeling that at least now he mattered to someone.

"Thank you, Your Highness, but it's not important, and I wouldn't want anyone to be beheaded because--"

"Yes, yes." Dagnarus waved his hand.

He had a short attention span and, although he would listen well to something in which he was interested, he would cut off impatiently any conversation that he found boring.

"I don't like the name 'Gareth,' " he announced.

"I am sorry, Your High--"

The prince lifted his chin, stared.

"Dag... narus," Gareth said. He left a pause between the syllables, for he was truly afraid that the prince would change his mind and order him to return to the formal appellation.

Dagnarus smiled. The smile brought out the gold flecks in his green eyes, made the eyes sparkle like topaz and emerald.

"I will call you Patch," he said.

Gareth bowed his head. The moment was solemn as a christening.

"You understand your duties, Patch? You are to be whipped when they want to punish me." The prince turned to his toys, caused the arm of the catapult to move up and down by pressing on it with his finger.

"You know that, don't you, Patch?" he reiterated. "They told you that?"

"Yes, Dagnarus," Gareth replied, a little uncomfortable with his new name.

"They hit you because no ordinary mortal dares lay hands upon his king. They think that if they beat you, I will feel remorseful, and I won't disobey them anymore. That's what they think."

He frowned, the green eyes darkened. The gold glints disappeared like jewels sinking beneath the surface of still water. He joggled the catapult, rolled it about on its small wooden wheels.

"It won't work," he said, and his voice was stern. "I tell you that right now, Patch. I will be sorry to see you beaten, of course, but there are things that they want to try to make me do that I will not do."

The green eyes, looking at Gareth, were dark and still. "Not if they were to kill you for it, Patch."

This statement was different from the former boast. This was spoken in a strange, unchildlike voice, a voice without innocence, a voice that knew the meaning of what he said.

"You can leave, if you want to, Patch," Dagnarus added. "You won't get into trouble over it. I'll tell the Queen, my mother" -- he said this word with a slight curl of his lip--"that I didn't want you. I don't need a companion."

Gareth looked around the room, and he didn't see the wonderful toys, or the books, or the guards at the open door, keeping watch to see that the whipping boy didn't strangle His Highness, or the servants lurking about, waiting to satisfy His Highness's least desire. Gareth saw the prince's loneliness, stark and bare as a bone. He saw it as a mirror reflecting his own loneliness. He saw the stag with the arrows, leaping merrily.

"If they want to whip me, Dagnarus," Gareth said shyly, "they're going to have to catch me first."

The golden jewels sparkled, the green eyes glittered, and the prince laughed out loud. So boisterous was his laughter that the chamberlain, who had been skulking about in the hall, hoping for a fight to break out that he might be the one to tell Her Majesty that he, the chamberlain, had been against this from the start, thrust his head inside the door.

"Did we summon you? Get out of here, you old fart!" Dagnarus shouted, and threw a wooden block at him.

Emboldened, Gareth tossed a block at the chamberlain as well. His aim fell quite short, for his throw was meek and halfhearted. Dagnarus's block was thrown with much more accuracy and skill and missed the man only because the chamberlain had the good sense to slam shut the door.

Dagnarus opened one of the books, a large, leather-bound volume with gold leaf on the cover. The pages were vellum, trimmed in gold. Timidly, Gareth admired the book. He gazed in wonder and awe at one of the illustrations within -- a knight in fabulous armor battling a dragon out of Nanny's bedtime tales. He recognized a book written by the magi, who keep a record of great deeds done by heroes of the past and use them as teaching tools.

"Do you want to read this story?" Gareth asked with wistful longing.

"No." Dagnarus scoffed. Closing the book impatiently, he stacked another volume on top of it. "This shall be our fortress." He positioned the catapult in front of it and prepared to fire. "We are going to play at war."

Copyright © 2000 by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman, and Larry Elmore.