Chapter 5
As the morning wore on, Randor watched as Adam slowed down. He did about half of his stretching exercises, but as he progressed, his motions grew half-hearted. "Go on, son, keep working your legs," he murmured, even knowing that Adam couldn't hear him. Having Adam ignore his advice was a familiar sensation. Randor sighed. "Maybe," he groused, "if Duncan came and muttered at this thing, Adam would listen to him."
Randor shook his head. This was self-indulgent. It didn't really matter that the only time Adam had come to speak with him at any length lately he'd been an imposter.
When Adam had more or less stopped exercising, he got up and wandered over to the wall where, the night before, he'd carved a large, arched doorway. He'd spent a lot of time on it, carefully carving each stone of the arch, each wooden panel, finally finishing it off with a doorknob. Then he'd carved a single word over the top of it. "Exit."
Adam stood in front of it for a few minutes, staring. Randor wondered what he was thinking. He reached out a hand and touched the doorknob. His fingers lingered on it for a moment, then his fist clenched. His arm swung back and he began punching it repeatedly. After what seemed an eternity to Randor, ten seconds at least, he stopped and collapsed against the wall, leaning on his arms. He turned, still leaning against the wall, and slid down to a sitting position, knees pulled up to his chest, elbows resting on them.
And he stayed there. For hours. And Randor watched him, resisting the impulse to cajole him to action. The scene grew so static that the only motion was Adam's shoulders moving up and down in time with his breathing. When the heavily laden plate appeared, Randor started. Steam rose from a lamb cutlet, corn on the cob and a heaping pile of mashed potatoes. So the weasel had decided they'd been punished enough, had he? Randor waited impatiently for Adam to notice and start eating.
He looked up and glared at the plate. Then he stood up and walked over to the table, but he didn't sit down. He picked up the fork and fiddled with it, then dropped it on the plate. Turning his back on the food, he went to the bed and flopped down on it face first.
Randor stared in shock, his jaw dropping. Adam hadn't eaten in two days, yet, presented with a delectable meal, he ignored it? How depressed did a sixteen-year-old boy have to be to react that way? Randor stood up, furious, and seized the rectangle of rock in one hand. That vile, idiotic, outrageously callous oaf that had the gall to masquerade as his son was going to answer for this.
He strode out of the room, slamming the door behind him, forgetting completely that he was supposed to be sick.
****
Finally, Mekanek was able to shift. He stretched his legs as he retracted his neck. What had Randor been staring at for so long? The king had been so quiet for so long that despite his level of concentration Mekanek had been afraid to move.
He'd never gotten a clear look at the item, but Randor had been speaking to it off and on, very quietly. Mekanek hadn't quite caught all his words, but he thought Randor had spoken Duncan's name at one point. Then he'd sat motionless from just after breakfast to nearly lunch.
Mekanek dropped down out of the tree. He got a couple of odd looks from passersby, but nobody ever paid that much attention to his activities. Realizing abruptly that the building had no exit on this side, he sent his head soaring up over the roof just in time to see Randor entering the residence wing of the palace. Before the door shut, he caught a glimpse of the king starting up some stairs that led to an interior hallway. He'd never catch up now, so instead he went in search of the queen.
****
Randor went straight through Adam's door without stopping, barely pausing to open it. He shut it firmly behind him and walked straight across to where the imposter sat eating lunch. The weasel froze, his fork halfway between the plate and his mouth, a morsel of meat on its tines.
"How can you sit there and eat while my son –"
"I gave him food," the imposter declared defensively.
"I know. The problem is that he's so depressed he doesn't care."
"What?" The man just stared at him, appearing dumfounded. "But – no, he wouldn't just not eat."
"You tell him that!" the king exclaimed, holding out the viewer, image still moving. A sudden thought occurred to him. "You know," he said more slowly. The imposter looked up, brows raised. He really does move like a weasel when he's not pretending to be Adam, Randor thought. "You know how you threatened to cripple Adam if I told anyone?"
The weasel nodded, then said, "That still holds true."
"Fine." Randor smiled at him, which seemed to discomfit the twit. "That's just fine. Here's my little ultimatum to you. You don't give Adam something to do, and I'll cripple you." The fraudulent Adam's eyes widened in shock. "Oh, you'll still get your machine," the king continued, copying the casual tone his opponent had once used. "And I'll still expect my son back."
The imposter finally found his voice. "You wouldn't!"
"Watch me. He'll do you no good as a hostage if he kills himself, you fool."
Though his eyes snapped angrily at the insult, the imposter nodded. "Very well. You gather some things up – things that won't be missed and that I won't be expected to have – and I'll send them to him." Randor glanced around the room, trying to decide, but the weasel wasn't finished. "If you try to slip anything questionable in with the rest, Adam will get to find out how well he likes darkness for awhile. Total, complete darkness."
Randor caught himself as he reached again for the fiend's throat. Clenching the fist, he brought it back down to his side. "That's not a problem." He walked over to the bookcase where Adam's research materials had been placed and pulled out the books and pages of notes. He placed them in a pile on the table. Then he walked back over to the bookcase, and his glance fell on the chest containing Elegius' journals. Adam had been so careful with the irreplaceable books. Once he'd even scolded Teela for not washing her hands thoroughly before handling them. A smile quirked his lips. He picked up the chest and carried over to the pile of books. Add some paper, ink and pens, and it was a good start. He raised an eyebrow at the weasel. "I don't suppose I could convince you to send a bookcase?"
The magician was already eyeing the pile of books with a dubious expression. "I think not." Randor shrugged, then ducked into Adam's bathroom to scoop up some basic toiletries. "How long is this going to take?" the duplicate demanded.
Dropping the toiletries on the table, the king gave his antagonist a speculative look. "Can you give me an hour?" The weasel rolled his eyes and nodded ungraciously. "Oh," Randor said, eye falling on the soap. "You might also consider giving him somewhat freer access to water, both for drinking and washing." Observing the irritation on the villain's face, he hastily added, "I'm giving you what you want. All I'm asking is that you treat my son humanely." The imposter shrugged but voiced no objections. Randor left and made a stop by the library to pick up a couple of novels. Then he went down to the gardener and wheedled a small potted flower from him. In one of the maintenance workshops, he found a few small pots of paint and some brushes. The cook was easily persuaded to part with some of Adam's favorite sweetmeats and cookies. Dorgan wasn't available when Randor stopped by the infirmary, so he went into his office and found the weights that he'd been having Adam use to strengthen his legs. Returning to his study with this odd assortment of items, the king sat down to write his son a note.
He had no way to be sure that the weasel would send it with the other things, but he had to try.
My Dear Adam,
I have finally persuaded this nameless fellow to provide you with a few things to make your captivity more bearable. Please understand that I'm doing everything I can to get you out of there as soon as possible. I hope you won't need half of these things, but I can't count on - well, there might not be another opportunity to send anything to you.
Randor pursed his lips, well aware that the imposter would undoubtedly insist on reading this note if he agreed to send it. There was so much to say. . .
I miss you dreadfully. As your father, I want you here by my side, and I will do anything to achieve that. As King of Eternia, my duty is clear. I need my sole heir returned to me, alive and well.
Remember, as a prince, your life is not your own. Your duty is to survive and return. Eat and exercise, my boy. If you have trouble getting yourself going, just imagine how amused Skeletor would be to see you weak and feeble. Your mother and Cringer would be devastated if you were to become ill again. He's already pining for you. Try to think of this as a chance to recover your strength without the whole world watching you. I am here, working hard to bring you back.
Everyone here is well and I will see to it that it stays that way. Don't worry about us.
Your mother and I love you very much, Adam, always remember that. You're in my thoughts every second of the day.
All my love,
Randor
Biting his lip to keep from speaking, he stood by and affected unconcern while the weasel read the letter. After a time, the fellow looked up, one eyebrow raised sardonically. "Right to the point, as ever. All that talk of duty, though, it seems a bit harsh." Randor kept his expression neutral somehow. "Do you really think there's a danger of suicide?" Adam's father flinched at the sound of that blunt word. He was unwilling, when brought to the point, to admit the possibility so baldly. It was one thing to talk hypothetically about it, but he just couldn't bring himself to . . . to talk directly about it. The imposter shrugged. "Well, I suppose it's in my best interests to keep the little wimp contented." Randor clamped his teeth firmly together to keep from giving him specific reasons, like broken bones, why it was in his best interests. The weasel placed the letter on top of the stack. The king waited, but the fellow turned angrily on him. "It will take some time to prepare this. You might as well go back to your study and watch him."
Gritting his teeth, he turned to leave, but the imposter caught his arm in a surprisingly strong grip. The weasel said something in a low voice that Randor couldn't quite catch, and suddenly his arm felt like it was on fire. Randor hissed at the searing pain. In his surprise, he looked into the pools of blue ice that were the imposter's eyes, something he had avoided doing as often as possible. The wrong mind looking at him out of his son's face made him shudder.
"Don't threaten me again!" the imposter growled. Then he let go and Randor stared in horror at the hand-shaped burn on his arm. "Now get out." Randor backed toward the door, then turned to leave. "Wait!" The voice was commanding. Randor hoped that the guard outside couldn't hear them speaking. "I'll expect a progress report on my machine tomorrow morning."
Randor didn't speak, he just clutched his left arm with his right hand to hide the shape of the injury and left the room, avoiding the curious eyes of the guard.
He walked into the infirmary, left arm at his side. He'd gotten too many curious looks gripping his forearm, so he'd caught hold of the cape in his left hand to shield the injury from view. Dorgan had returned from whatever errand he had been on, so he caught the healer's eye and went straight into one of the exam rooms, shutting the door behind him. Dorgan came in a second or so later. "Has he fed him yet?" he asked as soon as the door was closed. So much had happened since that morning that Randor blinked stupidly at him for a moment. "Well, Randor? Did he feed Adam?"
"Yes, but –" Randor broke off abruptly. He hadn't looked in on Adam for the past hour. Who knew what could be happening now? He reached into his right hand pocket for the viewing stone. "Activate," he said. Dorgan leaned over to look and brushed against the burn on Randor's arm. His grip on the stone tightened and he let out an involuntary gasp of pain.
Dorgan drew back and said, "What's wrong?" Before Randor could move or speak, he flipped the cape out of the way and lifted the king's left arm into view. Randor closed his eyes to avoid seeing the mark on his skin that was in the shape of his son's hand. "That slimy, no-good, scheming, vile, wretched –" Dorgan mouthed silently for a moment, apparently out of sufficiently derogatory adjectives. "Did this just happen?" Randor nodded. "I'm going to kill him," he muttered, reaching for a salve. As he treated the wound, cursing the imposter all the while, Randor peered into the image.
Adam had returned to his stretching exercises, his father was pleased to see. Nothing else in the room had changed. The food sat on the table, untouched. "Why isn't he eating?" Randor demanded of no one in particular.
"What?" Dorgan leaned away from where he was wrapping a bandage around Randor's arm to peer into the viewer. "How long has that food been there?"
"About an hour and half, I'd guess. He had a bad morning, sat motionless for hours. When the food arrived, he just looked at it then flopped down on the bed." Dorgan made tsk, tsk noises. "I got – well, I got angry and I went to see the rotten weasel. Told him he had to give Adam something to do. He finally agreed, so I got some things together for the boy."
"Have you already sent them? I don't see anything. You've got to send his weights."
"I already did."
"What? Where did you get them?"
"I took them out of your office." At Dorgan's outraged glare, he started sputtering. "I only had an hour, Dorgan, and you weren't here."
"So why did he burn you?" Dorgan asked.
"To make a point." Dorgan started muttering again and returned to bandaging the burn. Randor kept watching Adam. The boy stopped exercising abruptly, looking across the room at something his father couldn't immediately see. Though he'd known something was going to happen, Randor found himself dry- mouthed with worry. What was going to happen? A circle of light had appeared in mid air about two feet away from the table. It grew and stretched into an oval through which Adam's double stepped, levitating a wooden chest with the pot of marigolds atop it. Randor hadn't thought that the villain was actually going to have to go there himself.
Adam slowly straightened up to his full height, staring warily at the intruder. It was clear that he'd seen him before, there was no surprise in his look. They started speaking and Randor wished wildly for sound.
****
Adam was on his back, doing windmills with his legs when he saw a bright light shine suddenly in the middle of the room. He froze for a second, then rolled over onto his knees to watch as the glow formed a circle and then a lengthening oval. This looked distinctly familiar, and Adam got to his feet in preparation for the visit he was anticipating.
His double, wearing his clothes, stepped through into the room. Adam balled his hands into fists, but he stayed where he was, glaring at the man. Behind him a trunk floated through the portal, with a flower on top.
"Good afternoon, your highness," he said, his voice dripping with irony. "I thought I might pay you a visit." The trunk floated over against a wall and settled down.
"So glad to see you," Adam said dryly. "I suppose it could be worse, you could be Skeletor."
The imposter's eyes narrowed. "Skeletor doesn't have the brains to pull off something like this."
Adam shrugged. "Yeah, and you've even got skin!" My skin, Adam thought angrily. Then he noticed that the portal was still there behind the imposter. He took a couple of steps forward, toward the table where one of the pottery shards sat on the near corner. If he could feint at the double and get him to move to one side or the other, maybe he could get through it, back to – well, out of here anyway.
"I brought you some time wasters, to keep you from going nuts." He looked around at Adam's carvings on the walls. "Though it looks like you've found some activities for yourself." Adam shrugged. "Why didn't you eat your lunch?"
"What's it to you? After two days of empty plates, I sincerely doubt you care about my health." He laughed. "So what did Dad do to annoy you? Did he ground you? Send you to your room without supper?"
****
Dorgan snorted. Randor looked up at him, startled, then looked back at the image in the stone. They were both watching intently. "That boy of yours is saucy Randor," Dorgan said suddenly, sounding amused. "Of course, maybe he shouldn't be doing that, he shouldn't be antagonizing him."
Randor was looking so hard at the images before him that he thought his eyes might pop out of his head. "Antagonize him? Is he antagonizing him? What's he saying? How can you tell what he's saying?"
"I can read lips. Now hush!"
****
"I'm glad you find it so amusing, boy." Adam was level with the table now. He stopped moving forward and put his hands on his hips. "I asked you a question, and I expect an answer." The imposter glanced away, toward the plate, and Adam decided his time was now. He seized the shard and launched himself toward his double.
Instead of dodging him, the magician's hand flew up and he cried out. A blast of force caught Adam in the face and chest, flinging him backwards. The pottery flew out of his hand, and he heard it shatter further along the wall just as he hit. He slid down the wall, unable to break his fall with his legs in any way. For a few moments he lay there dazed.
****
"No, Adam!" Randor cried as he watched his son grab the makeshift weapon and throw himself at his tormentor.
"Randor, quiet!" Dorgan hissed. "There are people out in the main room. They'll hear you." Randor drew in his breath and held it as the events unfolded. Dorgan growled as they watched Adam slide limply to the floor. "If he's hurt him I'll – I'll –"
"Hush!" Randor said, leaning forward, trying to get a clearer view.
****
Adam shook his head, trying to clear it. He pushed himself into a sitting position and covered his face with his hands. After a moment, he dragged himself to his feet, not wanting to be uneven with his enemy, but he had to lean against the wall to stay upright. His double stood back, watching him, a malevolent glint in his eye. Mastering himself, Adam shoved away from the wall and took a step towards the imposter.
They were face to face, but Adam's legs were trembling so badly, he knew there was nothing he could do but glare.
The imposter lifted his hand, and Adam glanced over at it to see what he was doing. "Have you forgotten what I can do, boy?" the double asked softly. The image of the chair sparking away into ashes flashed in his mind's eye, and Adam stiffened, moving instinctively backward. Panic suffused him, but the wall was too close behind him, and his legs wouldn't obey.
The imposter latched onto his arm as he flailed, trying get away. Adam yanked back, but he couldn't free himself. Slowly, deliberately, the imposter pushed his sleeve up so that his hand was on Adam's bare forearm. The doppelganger murmured a word and Adam felt heat emanating from his hand. He tried to wrench free, but his opponent's grip held firm. Adam's legs gave way suddenly, and he landed hard on his knees, still trying desperately to break away.
The heat built and Adam suddenly heard himself screaming.
****
Randor stared in horror as Adam cringed back from the imposter's hand. What had that bastard done to him before that he was reacting like this? Dorgan was speaking, but Randor couldn't hear him. He sounded like he was miles away down a tunnel. The weaselly little monster grabbed Adam's arm and Adam seemed to panic, thrashing back and forth, trying to get away.
He fell. Randor was a mass of tension, unable to look away. His son was being tortured before his eyes. When Adam's mouth opened in what had to be a scream, a cry was wrenched from his throat, too. He felt a sudden rushing in his head, then nothing more.
As the morning wore on, Randor watched as Adam slowed down. He did about half of his stretching exercises, but as he progressed, his motions grew half-hearted. "Go on, son, keep working your legs," he murmured, even knowing that Adam couldn't hear him. Having Adam ignore his advice was a familiar sensation. Randor sighed. "Maybe," he groused, "if Duncan came and muttered at this thing, Adam would listen to him."
Randor shook his head. This was self-indulgent. It didn't really matter that the only time Adam had come to speak with him at any length lately he'd been an imposter.
When Adam had more or less stopped exercising, he got up and wandered over to the wall where, the night before, he'd carved a large, arched doorway. He'd spent a lot of time on it, carefully carving each stone of the arch, each wooden panel, finally finishing it off with a doorknob. Then he'd carved a single word over the top of it. "Exit."
Adam stood in front of it for a few minutes, staring. Randor wondered what he was thinking. He reached out a hand and touched the doorknob. His fingers lingered on it for a moment, then his fist clenched. His arm swung back and he began punching it repeatedly. After what seemed an eternity to Randor, ten seconds at least, he stopped and collapsed against the wall, leaning on his arms. He turned, still leaning against the wall, and slid down to a sitting position, knees pulled up to his chest, elbows resting on them.
And he stayed there. For hours. And Randor watched him, resisting the impulse to cajole him to action. The scene grew so static that the only motion was Adam's shoulders moving up and down in time with his breathing. When the heavily laden plate appeared, Randor started. Steam rose from a lamb cutlet, corn on the cob and a heaping pile of mashed potatoes. So the weasel had decided they'd been punished enough, had he? Randor waited impatiently for Adam to notice and start eating.
He looked up and glared at the plate. Then he stood up and walked over to the table, but he didn't sit down. He picked up the fork and fiddled with it, then dropped it on the plate. Turning his back on the food, he went to the bed and flopped down on it face first.
Randor stared in shock, his jaw dropping. Adam hadn't eaten in two days, yet, presented with a delectable meal, he ignored it? How depressed did a sixteen-year-old boy have to be to react that way? Randor stood up, furious, and seized the rectangle of rock in one hand. That vile, idiotic, outrageously callous oaf that had the gall to masquerade as his son was going to answer for this.
He strode out of the room, slamming the door behind him, forgetting completely that he was supposed to be sick.
****
Finally, Mekanek was able to shift. He stretched his legs as he retracted his neck. What had Randor been staring at for so long? The king had been so quiet for so long that despite his level of concentration Mekanek had been afraid to move.
He'd never gotten a clear look at the item, but Randor had been speaking to it off and on, very quietly. Mekanek hadn't quite caught all his words, but he thought Randor had spoken Duncan's name at one point. Then he'd sat motionless from just after breakfast to nearly lunch.
Mekanek dropped down out of the tree. He got a couple of odd looks from passersby, but nobody ever paid that much attention to his activities. Realizing abruptly that the building had no exit on this side, he sent his head soaring up over the roof just in time to see Randor entering the residence wing of the palace. Before the door shut, he caught a glimpse of the king starting up some stairs that led to an interior hallway. He'd never catch up now, so instead he went in search of the queen.
****
Randor went straight through Adam's door without stopping, barely pausing to open it. He shut it firmly behind him and walked straight across to where the imposter sat eating lunch. The weasel froze, his fork halfway between the plate and his mouth, a morsel of meat on its tines.
"How can you sit there and eat while my son –"
"I gave him food," the imposter declared defensively.
"I know. The problem is that he's so depressed he doesn't care."
"What?" The man just stared at him, appearing dumfounded. "But – no, he wouldn't just not eat."
"You tell him that!" the king exclaimed, holding out the viewer, image still moving. A sudden thought occurred to him. "You know," he said more slowly. The imposter looked up, brows raised. He really does move like a weasel when he's not pretending to be Adam, Randor thought. "You know how you threatened to cripple Adam if I told anyone?"
The weasel nodded, then said, "That still holds true."
"Fine." Randor smiled at him, which seemed to discomfit the twit. "That's just fine. Here's my little ultimatum to you. You don't give Adam something to do, and I'll cripple you." The fraudulent Adam's eyes widened in shock. "Oh, you'll still get your machine," the king continued, copying the casual tone his opponent had once used. "And I'll still expect my son back."
The imposter finally found his voice. "You wouldn't!"
"Watch me. He'll do you no good as a hostage if he kills himself, you fool."
Though his eyes snapped angrily at the insult, the imposter nodded. "Very well. You gather some things up – things that won't be missed and that I won't be expected to have – and I'll send them to him." Randor glanced around the room, trying to decide, but the weasel wasn't finished. "If you try to slip anything questionable in with the rest, Adam will get to find out how well he likes darkness for awhile. Total, complete darkness."
Randor caught himself as he reached again for the fiend's throat. Clenching the fist, he brought it back down to his side. "That's not a problem." He walked over to the bookcase where Adam's research materials had been placed and pulled out the books and pages of notes. He placed them in a pile on the table. Then he walked back over to the bookcase, and his glance fell on the chest containing Elegius' journals. Adam had been so careful with the irreplaceable books. Once he'd even scolded Teela for not washing her hands thoroughly before handling them. A smile quirked his lips. He picked up the chest and carried over to the pile of books. Add some paper, ink and pens, and it was a good start. He raised an eyebrow at the weasel. "I don't suppose I could convince you to send a bookcase?"
The magician was already eyeing the pile of books with a dubious expression. "I think not." Randor shrugged, then ducked into Adam's bathroom to scoop up some basic toiletries. "How long is this going to take?" the duplicate demanded.
Dropping the toiletries on the table, the king gave his antagonist a speculative look. "Can you give me an hour?" The weasel rolled his eyes and nodded ungraciously. "Oh," Randor said, eye falling on the soap. "You might also consider giving him somewhat freer access to water, both for drinking and washing." Observing the irritation on the villain's face, he hastily added, "I'm giving you what you want. All I'm asking is that you treat my son humanely." The imposter shrugged but voiced no objections. Randor left and made a stop by the library to pick up a couple of novels. Then he went down to the gardener and wheedled a small potted flower from him. In one of the maintenance workshops, he found a few small pots of paint and some brushes. The cook was easily persuaded to part with some of Adam's favorite sweetmeats and cookies. Dorgan wasn't available when Randor stopped by the infirmary, so he went into his office and found the weights that he'd been having Adam use to strengthen his legs. Returning to his study with this odd assortment of items, the king sat down to write his son a note.
He had no way to be sure that the weasel would send it with the other things, but he had to try.
My Dear Adam,
I have finally persuaded this nameless fellow to provide you with a few things to make your captivity more bearable. Please understand that I'm doing everything I can to get you out of there as soon as possible. I hope you won't need half of these things, but I can't count on - well, there might not be another opportunity to send anything to you.
Randor pursed his lips, well aware that the imposter would undoubtedly insist on reading this note if he agreed to send it. There was so much to say. . .
I miss you dreadfully. As your father, I want you here by my side, and I will do anything to achieve that. As King of Eternia, my duty is clear. I need my sole heir returned to me, alive and well.
Remember, as a prince, your life is not your own. Your duty is to survive and return. Eat and exercise, my boy. If you have trouble getting yourself going, just imagine how amused Skeletor would be to see you weak and feeble. Your mother and Cringer would be devastated if you were to become ill again. He's already pining for you. Try to think of this as a chance to recover your strength without the whole world watching you. I am here, working hard to bring you back.
Everyone here is well and I will see to it that it stays that way. Don't worry about us.
Your mother and I love you very much, Adam, always remember that. You're in my thoughts every second of the day.
All my love,
Randor
Biting his lip to keep from speaking, he stood by and affected unconcern while the weasel read the letter. After a time, the fellow looked up, one eyebrow raised sardonically. "Right to the point, as ever. All that talk of duty, though, it seems a bit harsh." Randor kept his expression neutral somehow. "Do you really think there's a danger of suicide?" Adam's father flinched at the sound of that blunt word. He was unwilling, when brought to the point, to admit the possibility so baldly. It was one thing to talk hypothetically about it, but he just couldn't bring himself to . . . to talk directly about it. The imposter shrugged. "Well, I suppose it's in my best interests to keep the little wimp contented." Randor clamped his teeth firmly together to keep from giving him specific reasons, like broken bones, why it was in his best interests. The weasel placed the letter on top of the stack. The king waited, but the fellow turned angrily on him. "It will take some time to prepare this. You might as well go back to your study and watch him."
Gritting his teeth, he turned to leave, but the imposter caught his arm in a surprisingly strong grip. The weasel said something in a low voice that Randor couldn't quite catch, and suddenly his arm felt like it was on fire. Randor hissed at the searing pain. In his surprise, he looked into the pools of blue ice that were the imposter's eyes, something he had avoided doing as often as possible. The wrong mind looking at him out of his son's face made him shudder.
"Don't threaten me again!" the imposter growled. Then he let go and Randor stared in horror at the hand-shaped burn on his arm. "Now get out." Randor backed toward the door, then turned to leave. "Wait!" The voice was commanding. Randor hoped that the guard outside couldn't hear them speaking. "I'll expect a progress report on my machine tomorrow morning."
Randor didn't speak, he just clutched his left arm with his right hand to hide the shape of the injury and left the room, avoiding the curious eyes of the guard.
He walked into the infirmary, left arm at his side. He'd gotten too many curious looks gripping his forearm, so he'd caught hold of the cape in his left hand to shield the injury from view. Dorgan had returned from whatever errand he had been on, so he caught the healer's eye and went straight into one of the exam rooms, shutting the door behind him. Dorgan came in a second or so later. "Has he fed him yet?" he asked as soon as the door was closed. So much had happened since that morning that Randor blinked stupidly at him for a moment. "Well, Randor? Did he feed Adam?"
"Yes, but –" Randor broke off abruptly. He hadn't looked in on Adam for the past hour. Who knew what could be happening now? He reached into his right hand pocket for the viewing stone. "Activate," he said. Dorgan leaned over to look and brushed against the burn on Randor's arm. His grip on the stone tightened and he let out an involuntary gasp of pain.
Dorgan drew back and said, "What's wrong?" Before Randor could move or speak, he flipped the cape out of the way and lifted the king's left arm into view. Randor closed his eyes to avoid seeing the mark on his skin that was in the shape of his son's hand. "That slimy, no-good, scheming, vile, wretched –" Dorgan mouthed silently for a moment, apparently out of sufficiently derogatory adjectives. "Did this just happen?" Randor nodded. "I'm going to kill him," he muttered, reaching for a salve. As he treated the wound, cursing the imposter all the while, Randor peered into the image.
Adam had returned to his stretching exercises, his father was pleased to see. Nothing else in the room had changed. The food sat on the table, untouched. "Why isn't he eating?" Randor demanded of no one in particular.
"What?" Dorgan leaned away from where he was wrapping a bandage around Randor's arm to peer into the viewer. "How long has that food been there?"
"About an hour and half, I'd guess. He had a bad morning, sat motionless for hours. When the food arrived, he just looked at it then flopped down on the bed." Dorgan made tsk, tsk noises. "I got – well, I got angry and I went to see the rotten weasel. Told him he had to give Adam something to do. He finally agreed, so I got some things together for the boy."
"Have you already sent them? I don't see anything. You've got to send his weights."
"I already did."
"What? Where did you get them?"
"I took them out of your office." At Dorgan's outraged glare, he started sputtering. "I only had an hour, Dorgan, and you weren't here."
"So why did he burn you?" Dorgan asked.
"To make a point." Dorgan started muttering again and returned to bandaging the burn. Randor kept watching Adam. The boy stopped exercising abruptly, looking across the room at something his father couldn't immediately see. Though he'd known something was going to happen, Randor found himself dry- mouthed with worry. What was going to happen? A circle of light had appeared in mid air about two feet away from the table. It grew and stretched into an oval through which Adam's double stepped, levitating a wooden chest with the pot of marigolds atop it. Randor hadn't thought that the villain was actually going to have to go there himself.
Adam slowly straightened up to his full height, staring warily at the intruder. It was clear that he'd seen him before, there was no surprise in his look. They started speaking and Randor wished wildly for sound.
****
Adam was on his back, doing windmills with his legs when he saw a bright light shine suddenly in the middle of the room. He froze for a second, then rolled over onto his knees to watch as the glow formed a circle and then a lengthening oval. This looked distinctly familiar, and Adam got to his feet in preparation for the visit he was anticipating.
His double, wearing his clothes, stepped through into the room. Adam balled his hands into fists, but he stayed where he was, glaring at the man. Behind him a trunk floated through the portal, with a flower on top.
"Good afternoon, your highness," he said, his voice dripping with irony. "I thought I might pay you a visit." The trunk floated over against a wall and settled down.
"So glad to see you," Adam said dryly. "I suppose it could be worse, you could be Skeletor."
The imposter's eyes narrowed. "Skeletor doesn't have the brains to pull off something like this."
Adam shrugged. "Yeah, and you've even got skin!" My skin, Adam thought angrily. Then he noticed that the portal was still there behind the imposter. He took a couple of steps forward, toward the table where one of the pottery shards sat on the near corner. If he could feint at the double and get him to move to one side or the other, maybe he could get through it, back to – well, out of here anyway.
"I brought you some time wasters, to keep you from going nuts." He looked around at Adam's carvings on the walls. "Though it looks like you've found some activities for yourself." Adam shrugged. "Why didn't you eat your lunch?"
"What's it to you? After two days of empty plates, I sincerely doubt you care about my health." He laughed. "So what did Dad do to annoy you? Did he ground you? Send you to your room without supper?"
****
Dorgan snorted. Randor looked up at him, startled, then looked back at the image in the stone. They were both watching intently. "That boy of yours is saucy Randor," Dorgan said suddenly, sounding amused. "Of course, maybe he shouldn't be doing that, he shouldn't be antagonizing him."
Randor was looking so hard at the images before him that he thought his eyes might pop out of his head. "Antagonize him? Is he antagonizing him? What's he saying? How can you tell what he's saying?"
"I can read lips. Now hush!"
****
"I'm glad you find it so amusing, boy." Adam was level with the table now. He stopped moving forward and put his hands on his hips. "I asked you a question, and I expect an answer." The imposter glanced away, toward the plate, and Adam decided his time was now. He seized the shard and launched himself toward his double.
Instead of dodging him, the magician's hand flew up and he cried out. A blast of force caught Adam in the face and chest, flinging him backwards. The pottery flew out of his hand, and he heard it shatter further along the wall just as he hit. He slid down the wall, unable to break his fall with his legs in any way. For a few moments he lay there dazed.
****
"No, Adam!" Randor cried as he watched his son grab the makeshift weapon and throw himself at his tormentor.
"Randor, quiet!" Dorgan hissed. "There are people out in the main room. They'll hear you." Randor drew in his breath and held it as the events unfolded. Dorgan growled as they watched Adam slide limply to the floor. "If he's hurt him I'll – I'll –"
"Hush!" Randor said, leaning forward, trying to get a clearer view.
****
Adam shook his head, trying to clear it. He pushed himself into a sitting position and covered his face with his hands. After a moment, he dragged himself to his feet, not wanting to be uneven with his enemy, but he had to lean against the wall to stay upright. His double stood back, watching him, a malevolent glint in his eye. Mastering himself, Adam shoved away from the wall and took a step towards the imposter.
They were face to face, but Adam's legs were trembling so badly, he knew there was nothing he could do but glare.
The imposter lifted his hand, and Adam glanced over at it to see what he was doing. "Have you forgotten what I can do, boy?" the double asked softly. The image of the chair sparking away into ashes flashed in his mind's eye, and Adam stiffened, moving instinctively backward. Panic suffused him, but the wall was too close behind him, and his legs wouldn't obey.
The imposter latched onto his arm as he flailed, trying get away. Adam yanked back, but he couldn't free himself. Slowly, deliberately, the imposter pushed his sleeve up so that his hand was on Adam's bare forearm. The doppelganger murmured a word and Adam felt heat emanating from his hand. He tried to wrench free, but his opponent's grip held firm. Adam's legs gave way suddenly, and he landed hard on his knees, still trying desperately to break away.
The heat built and Adam suddenly heard himself screaming.
****
Randor stared in horror as Adam cringed back from the imposter's hand. What had that bastard done to him before that he was reacting like this? Dorgan was speaking, but Randor couldn't hear him. He sounded like he was miles away down a tunnel. The weaselly little monster grabbed Adam's arm and Adam seemed to panic, thrashing back and forth, trying to get away.
He fell. Randor was a mass of tension, unable to look away. His son was being tortured before his eyes. When Adam's mouth opened in what had to be a scream, a cry was wrenched from his throat, too. He felt a sudden rushing in his head, then nothing more.