The Sword and the Flame

  Morwenna smiled and settled on the edge of the bed. “This one is a most highly regarded servant of the Most High. We would sooner turn out an elder than Biorkis. We would have made him an elder long ago, but he would not hear of it.”

  Biorkis replied gleefully. “Preposterous! The former high priest of the Temple of Ariel an elder? That would never do! No, I am content as I am. But please, my ladies, sit down. I will have more chairs brought.”

  “We can find places here,” said Bria, perching on the arm of her mother’s chair. Esme sat down on the bed beside Morwenna. “The king—Quentin—would like to see you. I am certain he would have come with us, but—”

  Biorkis held up his hands. “Your mother has already told me what has happened, and my prayers are with you all. I, too, feel the loss of Durwin even now. How much more must Quentin feel it? Not to mention the abduction of your son, my lady. But as I will be joining Durwin soon, I do not feel such grief as a younger man might. I cannot but think that the old rascal of a hermit will have some great work already in scheme for us to do when I get there. And so I will tarry here a little longer and make sure I am well rested.”

  The old priest spoke so assuredly and with such calm conviction that Esme wondered at it. “You make it sound as if he has only gone on a brief journey to his home in Pelgrin Forest.”

  “Aye, and so he has!” cried Biorkis. “But his journey was never to a place so humble as Pelgrin. No, my lady. He has joined the court of the Most High, Lord of All. If I feel sadness, it is only for the cruel way in which he was cut down. For all the goodness that was in him, Durwin should have ended his days like me, here, surrounded by friends and loved by all.”

  Morwenna smiled and patted the pale hand that rested on the sheet. “I am glad to hear that you have decided to remain with us yet a little longer.”

  Biorkis nodded happily, his clear eyes dancing at the sight of the women gathered around him. “I would remain always if I could be sur-rounded by such beauty as I see now.” He paused, then glanced around him, adding in a more solemn tone, “But this visit, as pleasant as it is, shares some more urgent purpose than merely to cheer a babbling old rattle-pate. What is it that brings you to me?”

  Morwenna spoke first. “A dream. We would like you to hear it and tell us what it may mean.”

  “Ah, a dream.” He nodded knowingly, and then turned to address Esme directly. “Why don’t you tell me your dream then, my lady, and we will see what can be learned from it.”

  Esme’s jaw dropped. “How did you know it was me?”

  Biorkis’s eyes narrowed. “I saw it the moment I laid eyes on you. I said to myself, ‘This one wears the cloak of vision.’”

  “You can see it?”

  “These old eyes have lost none of their sharpness; in fact, they have gained some into the bargain. The veil between this world and the one beyond grows ever more transparent. Indeed, lately I have difficulty con-tenting myself with only looking at this world.

  “But yes, I saw the aura of your dream still clinging to you when you entered the garden. A powerful dream it must have been. A vision!”

  “Do you think so?” Esme pondered and then said, “It is true I have seldom had such an unusual and forceful dream. Perhaps it was a vision.” She seemed taken with this notion.

  “Why not tell me and we shall see?” prodded Biorkis gently. The others looked on quietly as Esme gathered her thoughts, closing her eyes and entering once again into the dream that had so frightened her.

  As she began to speak she saw again the vivid events of the vision, taking place once more even as she spoke, only this time there was no sleep, only the images playing out before her once again. The garden and those around her faded from mind as she recounted her dream of the high and lonely place where men labored in vain to light the soggy pyre; of the tower built on a crumbling foundation that would not support it; of the bone thrown down in the market square which became a ban-ner of the king.

  “I see,” said Biorkis softly as Esme opened her eyes. All was silent in the garden, save for the faint buzz of insects among the flowers. How long had she been under the spell of the dream? she wondered.

  She read the anxious expressions on the faces of her friends and knew that her dream had disturbed them as much as it had unsettled her. “Do you think it means anything—anything—important?”

  “Oh, aye. Undoubtedly! It is a dream of power, as I have already said. It carries within it seeds of truth . . .” He hesitated, then said quietly, “But what that truth is, I am not now able to say.” He frowned. “No, I must have time to think about this and discover its meaning.”

  “But surely it is most apparent,” said Esme, and shocked herself with her own boldness. “Forgive me, sir. I meant no disrespect.”

  Biorkis cocked an eye at her. “Speak, my lady. The god may have revealed its meaning to you already.”

  Esme licked her lips. “The dark land must surely be our own, where men wander aimlessly without true light to guide them.”

  “Yes, so I would say. I agree.”

  “The beacon cannot be kindled without proper fuel—the flame will not take hold—”

  “The flame of true faith cannot be kindled on the fuel of the old religion—I ought to know,” said Biorkis. “But continue, please. You are doing wonderfully.”

  Esme wrinkled her brow. “This next is a most difficult part. I don’t know what it can mean: the tower that cannot stand.”

  “Oh, but that is the easiest part,” explained the former priest. “The god often presents the same message in different ways.” Esme frowned, so he explained by saying, “The tower of the new god will not be built on the foundation of the old ways, the old religion. One cannot build something new without clearing away the old.”

  “I see,” said Esme, “but I still do not understand what the last part can mean.”

  “It is plain enough,” replied Biorkis.

  “How so?” asked Bria, who had remained very quiet since Esme had told her dream.

  “Ah, I think you already know, my lady. Yes, you would,” said Biorkis. “Do you not see? This part of the dream means exactly what it says! Esme saved me from looking at it too closely; I would have spent all night pondering it and missed the meaning completely! As it is, I think we need look no further than what has already been revealed.”

  “You mean that this part of the dream says its own meaning?” asked Esme.

  “I believe so, yes. It wears its meaning in the events it describes: the bone of contention thrown down by a man in priest’s robes—”

  “The butcher?”

  “You said the man was dressed in dark robes—a priest, then, or one who hides behind a priestly garb to do his work.”

  “The bone became a royal banner,” said Alinea. “The dogs tore it to shreds!”

  “The kingdom!” gasped Bria. “It is being rent asunder! Can any-thing be done?” Her green eyes pleaded for an answer.

  “Oh, yes. Yes. It must be hoped above all hope that the events fore-told in Lady Esme’s vision can be turned aside.” He raised a finger in the air. “No doubt it was for this reason the vision was given.”

  “Then we must return to warn the king at once,” said Bria.

  “Yes,” agreed Alinea. “But tell me, you mentioned nothing of the prince in your dream. I wonder why?”

  “I cannot say,” replied Esme, a puzzled expression on her face. “Unless”—she glanced at Biorkis, who nodded encouragement to her—“unless the welfare of Gerin is not in doubt!”

  “Very good!” exclaimed the old priest. “I could not have said it better myself. My lady, you show a fine talent for interpreting dreams. We must talk more about this before you leave.”

  “We will go now,” suggested Morwenna. “If Esme’s vision is true, the elders will want to hear of it immediately.”

  “Yes, yes, go at once,” said Biorkis. “You must speak to them. No doubt they will discover something we have missed entirely. I was about t
o suggest it myself.”

  Bria stood, saying, “With your leave, good Biorkis, we will go. But I hope we may see you again before we must return to Askelon.”

  “Come back if you have time, but do not worry if you cannot. I understand completely. Go, all of you. It is time for my midday nap. Shoo!” Grinning, the old man folded his hands across his stomach and closed his eyes.

  Bria bent over him and kissed his bald head, and they all crept away quietly, leaving the garden to its lone occupant, and him to his rest.

  38

  We’uns’ll reach the castle by nightfall, Tipper. Yes—leastways, not long after. Still a fer road, though. Almost too fer on two legs in a day. But I don’t mind, Tip, I don’t.” The tinker patted his dog and ruffled the fur behind her ears as they sat on a hazel stump beside the southern road.

  The afternoon sun slid lower in the west over fields of ripening grain. They had left Pelgrin behind and upon emerging from the shaded wood, sat down for a few minutes to rest in the warmth of the day. The sword leaned against the stump for the moment; the weight of it had caused the thin cord to dig into its bearer’s shoulder.

  “Ah, what a day, Tip. Eh? Lookee yonder to that cloud o’dust rising. Some’uns coming and coming quick, by the look of it. Not one only, maybe two or three or more. We’uns’d best stay put right here out of the way. They’ll pass right by us so we’uns’ll see who ’tis.” Pym watched the dusty ochre cloud rising from the road beyond the next hill. In a moment he heard the drum of hooves on the earthen track, sounding a dull rumble, then saw the riders themselves as they crested the hill and came on toward him.

  Soon Pym could see the bearing of the men in the saddle and their fine clothing and knew that they must be knights or lords. He could hear the clink-chink of the steeds’ tack as they trotted along.

  The foremost riders—two men riding abreast—drew near where he sat on his rough hazel stump. Eyes straight ahead, looking neither right not left, they passed him in a flash. Three more dashed by in an instant, and one of these raised a gloved hand in greeting while one of his companions glanced at the tinker and nodded as he galloped by. Pym got to his feet and took up the sword. He stepped into the road and was in the act of hoisting the sword onto his shoulder once more, his eyes on the backs of the retreating horsemen, when a sixth rider approached.

  Before Pym could think or move, the rider was upon him. He jumped back, dropping the sword as the horseman jerked the reins hard, bringing his charger to a hoof-clattering, dust-churning halt.

  “Out of the way, you fool!” growled the angry rider. “If you can-not watch where you are going, you should stay off the road! Next time I will trample you!”

  Pym threw his hands in the air. “Sorry, Yer Lordship! I beg your pardon, master! Oh!” He scrambled out of the way as the ill-tempered rider and his fidgety mount cantered closer. Then, remembering the sword, the tinker turned quickly, stooped, and picked it up.

  “Ho! Stop!” said the rider. “What have you there?”

  Pym raised frightened eyes. His mouth worked the air, but his voice was some time in coming. “N-nothing, sir,” he managed to sputter at last, his features convulsing in anguish.

  “Hold, peasant! If you knew who it was that addressed you, you would do well to keep an honest tongue in your head.”

  The tinker lowered his eyes and said nothing; he brought the bundled sword behind his back, away from the prying eyes of the lord before him.

  At that moment Pym became aware of a sound behind him. The other riders, having seen one of their party stopped in the road, had come back to discover what the trouble was. All five of them rode up behind Pym. “What is the trouble, Ameronis?” asked one of the new-comers, eyeing Pym in his shabby clothes suspiciously.

  “This rascal darted out in front of me and nearly threw me from the saddle,” replied the quarrelsome Ameronis.

  “I am certain he meant no harm,” said Lord Edfrith—the one who had previously nodded to Pym as he rode by. “I noticed him on the stump here a moment ago. Leave him, and let us be off.” The nobleman made a move as if to ride away, but none of his friends followed.

  “What are you holding there?” asked Ameronis again, his voice cold and menacing. “I will see it before I ride hence.”

  Pym glanced at the ring of faces around him, his heart leaping to his throat. “I—! I . . . nothing, my lord.” He pulled the sword to him. “I am a poor man. A tinker. Please let me go.”

  “Let him be, Ameronis,” said the one who had spoken before. “He has nothing to interest us.”

  “Nevertheless,” roared Ameronis, “I will see it! If it is nothing, let him show me.” His piercing eyes fell upon Pym with keen determination. “But,” he continued slyly, “if that is a sword he holds wrapped in those rags, I mean to find out where this tinker came by it.”

  This brought a murmur from the others. “Well?” said Lord Gorloic. “Show us, then, for I too would see it.”

  “I discern the shape of a weapon beneath those rags,” added another—this was Lord Lupollen, Ameronis’s closest friend. “Show us, tinker; it is our right.”

  “No!” wailed Pym helplessly, “I cannot!” His black dog flattened her ears and growled. One of the horses stamped the ground and snorted.

  “Give it to me!” demanded Ameronis, thrusting out his hand suddenly.

  Pym clutched his prize to his chest and refused to give it up.

  “Come,” said Edfrith, “let us be about our own business.”

  “Go!” shouted Lupollen. “We do not need you. But as this interests me, I will stay to see it through.”

  Edfrith pulled his reins and his mount backed from the group, wheeled, and galloped away. “I will have nothing more to do with this ill-advised plan,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  “Please, sir. I have done nothing,” pleaded Pym, sweat dripping down his neck, staining his shirt. “Let we’uns go in peace. I beg you, ple—”

  “Silence, peasant! Shut your mouth!” With that, Ameronis leaned down from his saddle and grabbed the bundle.

  Terrified, Pym hung on and was pulled off his feet. Lord Ameronis struck him a blow across the face with his studded glove, raised his foot from the stirrup, and kicked the tinker in the stomach. Pym released the sword and fell writhing to the ground. Tip barked and snapped at her master’s attacker.

  Ameronis tore at the rag coverings, shreds of cloth falling from his hands. “No!” cried Pym, rolling up to his feet once more. “Please!” He looked to the other noblemen for help and saw their cool, impassive faces. They were with Ameronis. “I beg you, sir! Give it back!” He lurched for the blade, but was not quick enough. The haughty Ameronis lashed out with his booted foot, caught the tinker full on the jaw, and sent him sprawling backward in the dust.

  “I am in your debt, tinker,” crowed Ameronis, pulling the last of the tatters aside. “You have delivered the prize into my hand!” He raised the sword high. “And also the crown!”

  “By all the gods!” gasped the noblemen, looking on. “It is Zhaligkeer, the Shining One!”

  “For this service I will give you a reward, tinker,” said Ameronis, his eyes shining with the light of his greed. “What do you think of that?”

  Pym stared in horror at the sword in the usurper’s hand and said nothing.

  “I will grant you your worthless life,” said Ameronis, laughing. His lords laughed too, nervously, still amazed that the sword had come to them. “For surely you have stolen this sword, tinker,” continued the lord, lofting the sword and swinging it, enjoying its cold, resilient strength in his hand, the blade so finely crafted that it seemed alive.

  “Now get up on your feet, scum,” he ordered.

  Pym, his mouth bleeding and the skin along his jaw swelling an ugly violet-red, dragged himself to his feet.

  Ameronis flicked the point of the Shining One at the tinker’s throat. “You will tell no one of this, tinker, do you hear me? I have ears every-where, and if you tell I will know about
it and I will have your head on a spike over the gate of my castle. Do you understand?”

  Pym felt the cold kiss of the sharp blade against his flesh. He knew the ambitious Lord Ameronis would not hesitate to kill him, and within his heart he burned with rage and shame: he had let them take the king’s sword. What could he do? How could he prevent them?

  “Ye might as well kill me now,” said Pym sullenly. “For I will not keep quiet about this.” Now that the words were said, he stood by them. “Yes, we’uns mean to go to the king straightaway and tell him what’s happened.”

  “You care so little for your life then, tinker?”

  “I care so much fer me king,” replied Pym. “It be his sword ye hold there, as ye well know. We’uns were taking it to him—it been lost, ye see.”

  “I warn you for the last time,” Ameronis menaced. He raised the sword to strike. Tip growled savagely and barked at her master’s attacker.

  Pym stood his ground and closed his eyes. If it was to be his last moment . . . very well, let it be in the service of his king. He waited for the sound of the blade singing through the air.

  Instead he heard a shout—far off and high-pitched.

  “Wait!” said one of the others. “Someone is coming!”

  When a sound of hooves came thumping up behind them, Ameronis cursed and said, “I will finish with this one even so!”

  “Do not be a fool!” said Lupollen, his voice tense. “We have what we want; let us leave the field clean.”

  Pym opened his eyes a peep and saw the violent lord’s face, dark with rage, still towering above him, the sword still raised in his hand. The hooves pounded closer, and another shout reached them.

  Ameronis glanced up, then hovered for a moment in indecision.

  “Come!” urged Lupollen, his horse wheeling around. The others turned their mounts and started away.

  “The gods bear witness,” muttered Ameronis thickly, “blind luck has saved you, tinker. But if ever we meet again, your life is forfeit.” With that he spurred his charger forward, directly at Pym, who jumped to the side. He was not quick enough, and Ameronis swung the sword hilt down on his skull.