"He's not totally rash," Shea agreed.
"It was well thought, Xei," Tripitaka said. "How did you come by such an idea?"
Shea shrugged. "Just an incurable romantic, I guess. I have this notion that everybody only has one true love, so that if the current King of Crow-Cock is a lake, he couldn't possibly be really in love with the Queen. Of course, I'm assuming they were really in love with one another in the first place, which I understand isn't always the case here."
"Marriages are arranged," Monkey agreed. "What has love to do with it?"
"Apparently it did, in this case," Shea said. "At least, our prince seems to think so, or he wouldn't be going to question his mother. Wouldn't it be great to be a fly on the wall during that interview!"
"Why, what a charming idea!" Monkey cried. "Would you truly like it, Xei? Then come, let us fly!" He made a magic pass, and Shea felt some very sudden and very odd sensations. The room swam before his eyes, and he felt panic; then it steadied, and he could see more of it—he had a 270-degree field of view, though it was broken up into dozens of fragments, a sort of living mosaic. He turned to Chalmers, but Doc towered above him like a mountain, looking appalled. With a shock of horror. Shea realized he was now a fly!
Then another fly buzzed over to him- a huge fly, as big as he was, and with Monkey's face! "Are you ready, then?" asked the simian sorcerer. "Then come, away!" His face changed back into a fly's head, and he turned away, darting up off the floor, wings a blur.
Shea followed him, then realized he had not even thought about doing so. With a sinking heart, he wondered if he could have resisted, if Monkey had not cast a compulsion of some sort over him.
They flew out the window, over the forest, and found the river. Upstream they went, till they saw the walls and towers of a city before them. It was not terribly big, by Shea's standards—he doubted if it held more than twenty thousand people—but it was very pretty from this height, with little white houses and a tall stone palace.
The Monkey-fly arrowed down toward that palace. Shea followed.
Monkey buzzed from window to window, then ducked in through an ornate carved screen. Shea came right behind him, just barely beginning to worry about fly swatters.
He really had no need; Monkey spiralled up and up to alight on the top of a tapestry, fifteen feet above the floor—though from Shea's new perspective, it looked as though he were gazing down from the side of Mount Rushmore. He perched beside Monkey, feeling like Teddy Roosevelt's image, and scouted the surroundings.
They were in a high-roofed, light, airy chamber, hung with silks and tapestries and floored with a rich carpet. The furnishings were luxurious, but uncluttered—a rich, wide bed, a table with two chairs, a chest or two. By the window sat a woman painting a scroll, which was an amazing feat of dexterity, considering how long her fingernails were. She was richly dressed in an embroidered silken gown, black hair elaborately coiffed. She was in her forties, but still strikingly beautiful. But in spite of her luxurious surroundings, she seemed listless, unhappy. Her brush strokes were few and labored, and her gaze kept drifting off through the window.
There was a scrabbling from that window, and she sat up in alarm.
"Mother!" came the prince's voice. "Admit me, please!"
"My son!" She rose in a single, fluid motion that contrasted oddly with her tottering walk as she hurried to open the screen. Shea saw why—her feet were so small that they might have been those of a child. He suppressed a surge of nausea and focused on the events below him.
The Queen was clasping her son to her breast, weeping openly, then stood away, as though remembering the proprieties. "My son, it is so good to see you! It has been three years since your father forebade us to meet! I have heard tales of your deeds, but have longed to see you with my own eyes!"
"And I you, Mother." The prince knelt, bowing "But I must speak briefly, for I come in secret."
"In secret?" The Queen glanced at the screen and quickly pulled it closed. "Yes, of course. It will go hard with you if your father learns of this, will it not? Oh, how foolish of you, to take such a risk!"
"It is necessary—because of that same king." The prince looked up at her, his face intent. "And because of my father."
"Why ... why do you speak of them as though they were two separate people?" she asked, her voice faltering.
"It is for you to answer that," the prince returned. "I was led today by a magician, led to a holy man who told me of a dream, and because of that I must ask you a question ..." He blushed and turned away. "Oh, but it is too personal!"
The Queen began to see where the conversation was going. She drew herself up, composing her face. "If it touches on your father's welfare, my son, you must ask it.
"I have no right ..."
"But you have a duty. He is your king. Ask what you will."
Neatly done, Shea decided—the prince had warned her of what was coming, but had managed to phrase it in such a way that she could not object. He bowed his head now, and asked, "Forgive me, Mother, but I must ask—has my father become less fervent in his love for you these three years past?"
She stared, stricken, then burst into tears. The prince was on his feet beside her in an instant, arms open to console, but she shrugged him off and tottered over to sit by the window again. She mastered her sobs, nodding. "It is even as you have guessed, my son. Your father suddenly turned very cold toward me, and has remained so to this day. He avoids me as much as he can, and when he cannot, he treats me with cold civility. Oh, he is never cruel or infuriated — but I could wish that he were!"
"The monk's dream was true, then," the prince said, his face grave. "Forgive me for having saddened you. Mother." He bowed and started to turn away, but she caught his sleeve and cried: "Wait! Surely now you must tell me this dream the monk spoke of!"
The young man hesitated. "It might imperil you to know of it ..."
"I think I do already! For know, my son, that I, too, have had a dream, only this night past—a dream in which your father appeared to die, and he was soaking wet from head to toe. I cried out, asking him what was the matter, for I had seen him hale and hearty only a few hours before. He told me that the Prime Minister, he who disappeared so suddenly and with so little explanation three years ago, had actually drowned your father in a well, then taken on his face and form—and throne!"
The prince bowed his head. "It is even this that the monk told me."
"Then there must be more, for your father's ghost told me that he had asked the Pilgrim Monk to avenge him! Oh, son, is this true? Is there any proof?"
"The monk showed me the white jade tablet that Father always carried with him, and that the King has not shown to anyone these three years past."
The Queen turned away with a wail of grief.
"Mother ..." The prince stepped forward, reaching out to the Queen.
"No, no, I will endure, I will endure!" she said between her sobs, mastering the emotion and wiping her eyes. "There will be a time for grief, there will be a time! For now, son, you must seek out proof that all the ministers of the kingdom will acknowledge, and aid the monk in avenging your father's death!"
"I must, and I shall." The prince knelt before her, bowing his head. "Courage, mother. Soon we shall talk more freely, and the kingdom will share our grief."
She clasped him in one more brief, impulsive hug, then pushed him away. "Go, and be quick, and careful! For if I should lose you, too, I should wish to lose my life!"
The prince bowed and turned to the window.
Monkey dropped off his perch and buzzed away toward the carved screen.
Shea staved only a moment longer, for one last look at the Queen, who was quietly weeping, then leaped into flight and followed Monkey.