They sat on stone benches near the fountain; Eskevar settled next to his lovely daughter and did not take his eyes from her. Bria began to relate the trivial commonplaces of her day, and her excitement at the approach of the evening’s Midsummer celebration. There was no hint in her voice of anything but the most joyful anticipation of delight.
How very like her mother, Durwin thought. How wise and good. Her heart must have been filled with thoughts of Quentin and consumed with longing for his presence in this happy time; yet she did not let on that she felt anything but the most perfect contentment and happiness. She was doing it for her father, he knew.
After a little while, Durwin slipped away and left his patient for the moment in the hands of an even more skilled physician, one whose very presence was a healing balm.
Arriving at the road, Esme had faced a hard decision. To the north lay Askelon and her goal; to the south, danger and the likelihood of being captured again. But she guessed that any help she might bring must come out of the south, too. That was the way her protectors, Quentin and Toli, had been heading when they encountered her. That was the way their friends were expected to return.
The choice had occupied her the greater part of the afternoon— ever since leaving the oracle. And upon reaching the seaside track, she was no further decided in her mind. Very likely Quentin and Toli were dead. And it was almost certain that their friends—whoever they were—had been ambushed and killed, as had her own bodyguards. It seemed a futile gesture to turn away from Askelon now; there was nothing to be gained by wandering farther afield.
And yet, the words of Orphe’s daughter still whispered in her mind:
But this ye do
And this will be found:
Your errand done
When two are unbound.
What else could it mean but that Quentin and Toli—the two— were still alive but would not remain so unless she went to free them? If she believed the prophecy at all, it would mean that her errand would only be accomplished in securing their release.
It made no sense. But when, thought Esme bitterly, did the gods ever make sense to mortals?
So, against all reason, she had turned Riv to the south. As their shadows deepened and lengthened in the late afternoon, they set off in search of friends in a friendless land.
A long night fraught with lingering chills had passed into a sullen morning in which an angry red sun glowered upon the horizon. Esme was up and shaking the leaves and dew from her cloak when she heard it: the crisp jingle of horses moving on the road. It was thin and far away, but it was a sound she knew well—the sound of men-at-arms moving with some speed and purpose, their weapons and tack clinking with every step.
She slipped from the bower that had been her bed for the night, slightly below the road and down an incline so that it was well hidden, and crept to the road’s edge to peer along its length. She could see no one coming, and for a moment the sound drifted away; she wondered if she had imagined it. But the road hereabouts ran over and around the many humps of this hilly region, and presently the sound came again.
She ducked away again into her leafy refuge and led Riv out and along a route parallel to the road. They descended into a small valley and rose again to the top of a little, tree-lined hill. From there Esme judged she would have a clear view of the road below without fear of being seen.
She waited. The resentful sun rose slowly, throwing off a sulky light; the air seemed dank and stale. The sky held the feel of a storm, though not a cloud was to be seen. Such days did often betoken ill, thought Esme, hoping that its end would not leave her with cause for regret.
Into the stillness of the morning came once more the jingling refrain she had heard before. This time it was closer and more distinct. Listening very hard, she thought she could hear the thump of horses’ hooves as the party, not large, moved along. Presently Esme saw the ruddy glint of a blade or helm as it caught the sun for a brief instant. Then, jouncing into view below her came two knights, three more following close behind.
Though she watched them for a while as they jogged along, Esme knew at once she had nothing to fear from these men. They were not of the destroying horde she had twice encountered. And from her secret perch she could barely make out the blazon of one knight’s shield as it hung beside him on his horse’s flank—the twisting red dragon of the Dragon King.
When the company of knights had drawn even with her hiding place, Esme urged Riv out gingerly and hastened down to meet them in the road. One of the knights saw her racing toward them, said something to his companions, and then broke away, galloping to intercept her. He did not speak as he joined her, but eyed her cautiously as he conducted her to where the others had stopped and were now waiting to receive them.
There was an awkward moment of silence when she finally reached them; the two foremost knights exchanged glances quickly. It was clear they did not know what to make of her, a young lady riding out of the hills alone.
“I am Ronsard, lord high marshal of Mensandor. I am at your service, my lady.” It was the knight whose blazon she had recognized.
The young woman spoke up without hesitation. “I am Esme—,” she began, but was interrupted by the second knight, a man of dark aspect whom she thought seemed somehow familiar.
“I used to know an Esme,” he said, “though she was but a slip of a girl and shy as a young deer.”
“It is a common name, sir,” she said guardedly. Who was this man? She was certain she had seen him before.
“Of course, you are right. The Esme I knew lived away in Elsendor and was never fond of horses, as I see you must be to ride as you do.” A secretive smile played at the edges of the knight’s mouth. Was he laughing at her? Esme wondered.
“Elsendor is a realm of some size,” she said. “Perhaps you would remember whose house it was wherein you saw the girl that bears my name.”
“I remember it well,” laughed the knight. “Often it was that I found lodging there and hospitality of the most royal kind.” He lingered on the word “royal” and gave it a peculiar emphasis.
Ronsard looked from one to the other of them curiously. “It is well that we have naught to do but pass the time wagging our tongues. Or perhaps there is some hidden jest which this dull head does not apprehend.”
“Sir, if it is a jest, it is not mine,” she said, a little confused. “I am on an errand of some importance concerning friends of yours, I think.”
“Then, my lady, I suggest you tell us plainly what you require of us. We are charged with an errand of importance as well.”
“Now, now, good Ronsard. Be not so hasty with this young lady. For though she is a stranger to you, I think her father is not.”
“You—you know my father?” She peered at him closely. “Your words addle me, sir. But there is something about you which seems not altogether unfamiliar.”
“Yes,” said Ronsard, growing impatient. “If you think you know something, then out with it!”
“Very well,” sighed Theido. “It may be that I am indeed mistaken. Yes, I’m certain I am. For any of King Troen’s offspring would know one whom they called Uncle.”
The young lady’s dark eyes opened wide in disbelief. Her head shook dubiously, wagging the sleek braid at the back of her head. “Theido?” A look of happy relief flooded her face as she saw the dark stranger throw back his head and laugh deeply.
Ronsard clucked his tongue and rolled his eyes. “What a meeting this is. It is not to be believed.”
“Believe it, Ronsard. Allow me to present Princess Esme of Elsendor. Far from home she may be, but far from friendless she is.”
“Theido! I do not believe it either, sir,” she said to Ronsard. “Upon my word, he is the last man I would have expected to meet this day.”
“Well might I say the same of you, Lady Esme. You see, Ronsard, I spent much time in the halls of King Troen when that craven Jaspin seized my lands. I was made an outlaw in my own country, but Queen Besmire took me in, t
hough her husband was away in the wars of Eskevar.”
“However did you know me? I scarce but recognize you.”
“You have much of your mother’s look about you, and much of your father’s boldness. The name Esme is not so widely used as you would have us believe. When I saw you, I knew there could be only one.”
The other knights murmured their surprise. Ronsard turned to them and said, “Why do you wonder at this, sirs? You well know Theido is kith to every family in the realm, be they plowman or prince.”
They all laughed, including Theido, who said, “Friends I have many, and it is true few men in Mensandor have not heard of Theido— though that is more of my father’s doing than my own.
“But let us be once more on our way. Join us, my lady, and tell us of your errand while we ride. We are for Askelon at once.”
“That suits me well—”
“I believe you spoke just now of friends of ours? What news would you bring us of them?” The party started off again.
“Dreadful news, sir. I wish it were not mine to tell. If you are friend to ones called Quentin and Toli, then you must prepare for the worst.” She glanced fearfully at her two companions. Their faces clouded with worry when she pronounced the names.
“I see I am right.”
“You are. Tell us what you know.”
“We were riding in search of you, my lords, traveling by night. We saw a fire—they said it was Illem, burning—and we rode to give aid. We were met by a fierce enemy, and Quentin and Toli were taken. I escaped.”
Tight lines appeared around Theido’s mouth, and Ronsard’s jaw bulged. “I marvel at your fortune,” said Ronsard. “And more at the directness of your speech.”
“My father has often said that bitter news does not grow sweeter on the tongue, and is better said quickly. If I thought that you would have been offended by my manner, I would have spared you.”
“No, don’t spare us. But tell us if we may hope for them.”
“Yesterday I thought not, but I chanced to meet an oracle by a pool. She gave me reason to hope, and reason to try to find you.”
“An oracle, you say?” Theido shrugged his shoulders. “Where need is great, any hand will serve, I guess. But we must not linger one moment longer; I fear my idle jesting has caused too much delay already. We will pick up the trail at Illem. We will have to wait for the rest of your story, my lady. I do not wonder but that it is most remarkable.”
“We ride for Illem!” shouted Ronsard to his knights. Reins snapped, and spurs bit into flanks, and the horses raced off into the hills toward the burned and blackened ring that had once been Illem.
19
Evening light lingered golden in the trees as Durwin stood out on the great bartizan overlooking the king’s magnificent garden, now ablaze with a thousand lanterns. The music of the assembled minstrels floated over all, a delicate tapestry of melody woven as if from the petals of summer flowers.
Nervous young men escorted radiant young ladies along the garden paths. Children frolicked among the leafy bowers, their laughter clean and clear, sounding like music played on silver instruments. Fine lords and ladies in bright costume moved gracefully among blue-and-yellow-striped pavilions wherein dainties were served. The Midsummer celebration at Askelon Castle was a feast for the senses, thought Durwin, sniffing the fragrant, flower-scented air. A thing of rare beauty.
“Why so heavyhearted, good hermit?” The voice was as light as the breeze that gently lifted the leaves in the garden. Durwin turned and bowed to his queen.
“My lady, you are a keen observer. I’ll not deny it,” he sighed.
“What can trouble your thoughts on an evening such as this? It is the night when all good things are dreamed—and you know that dreams may sometimes come true.”
“I wonder. Good does often seem so fragile against evil, the light so powerless against the darkness . . .” His voice trailed off without finishing the thought.
“That is not the Durwin I know. You sound as if you have been taking the king’s counsel.”
“Ah, so it is! How fickle a man’s mind, ever prey to his emotions. A weathercock for whatever winds may blow.” He smiled gently, recovering something of his former cheer. “Ah, yes. You are right to reprove me. What good is a physician who does not take his own cure?”
Alinea smoothly linked her arm in his and turned him toward the sweeping steps to the garden below. “Walk with me, kind friend. For I, too, have need of some good word.” A shadow moved across her lovely face. Durwin felt it like a pang.
“If words can help, then rely on it that I will say them.”
“I have been troubled today myself. A subtle unease disquiets my inmost soul, and most elusive it is. No cause seems readily apparent. Often, I discover myself to be thinking of Quentin.”
“I would calm you if I could, but these are not the words for it. I, too, have been thinking of Quentin this day—and of little else. When you came to me just now, I was thinking again of him, and of Toli, though even then I did not know it.”
“Do you think they may be in some trouble? It seems silly, I know—”
“Not at all, my lady, not at all. The Most High often joins our hearts with our loved ones in times of distress as well as joy. I have been praying for them all this day, though my prayers are uninformed.”
“I wish that I had the knowledge of the Most High that you possess. Then I would not feel so disposed to the foolishness of a woman’s fears.”
“But you have something else that serves as well. You have the ability to believe without the need for reasons, or for great signs and wonders. Yours is a faith to endure.”
“And yours?”
“Mine will endure, but it is born of years of struggling and vain striving. I have come to my belief over a most circuitous and rocky path, and I cannot say which is better. I think the god gives each soul what it requires, and there is the difference.”
“Still, I would know more of what you have learned in your quest. It cannot hurt to be informed.”
“Aye, my lady. You speak aright. I will gladly teach you what little I know. But do not be surprised if in your heart you already know the truth of what I would instruct. It is often thus.”
They were silent as they reached the last step and entered the festive world of the Midsummer revelers. Alinea turned and looked earnestly into Durwin’s broad and weathered face.
“What can be done for Quentin and Toli?”
“Nothing that has not already been done. Pray. It is no little thing.”
“Let me come to you when the celebration is over. We will pray together. If one heart alone may have effect, then two will speed the remedy. And your sure prayers will guide my own more directly to the mark.”
“As you wish, my queen. I will await you.”
Just then the blast of trumpets rang out above them from the bartizan they had just quit. They turned to see the king’s pages, their long trumpets in hand, snap to attention. Then King Eskevar himself was leaning on the stone balustrade, looking down upon the merrymaking. Silence descended slowly over the garden as all eyes turned toward him. Then the giggling children grew quiet as they sensed something important was about to happen, though they regarded it more of an interruption in their fun than an occasion of state. Their elders exchanged puzzled glances— it was not usual for the king to address his guests like this. But all waited to hear what he had to say.
“Citizens of Mensandor, my friends. I will not keep you long from your merrymaking, and I will join you soon. But I would tell you some things which have been on your king’s heart of late.”
There was a murmur of concern; some for the words, and some for the appearance of the king, whose haggard features were not at all disguised by his festive apparel.
“What I am about to tell you may cause you some concern. Please know that it is not my intention to worry you, nor cause you needless alarm.”
“What is he doing?” whispered Durwin.
> “I do not know.” Queen Alinea shook her head. A line of concern appeared on her brow. “He discussed nothing like this with me.”
“But as your king,” Eskevar continued, his solemn tones descending like a leaden rain into the garden, “I would be less than just if knowing of the danger to our realm I did not at once warn my people to look to their safety.”
Now there was a general clamor, and a voice called out, “This is a poor jest for Midsummer!” Another said, “Let the king speak! I would hear him out in peace!”
“It is not a jest, my loyal friends. But my heart can no longer abide rejoicing while across fair Mensandor the wild, angry clouds of war are gathering.” He held up a hand to silence the outburst that followed this revelation. “Even now my marshals scour the land to bring me word of our enemy, that we might know his strength and so arm against him. We shall fight for our land against any foe, and we shall win!”
The king’s voice had risen to a rant; he sounded like a madman, though his words were sane enough. A stunned silence fell upon the Midsummer revelers. Eskevar seemed to come to himself again and realized what he had done. His hand trembled slightly as he said, “Return now to your pleasure. It may be the last we will know for many dark days.” He turned and walked away from the balustrade and disappeared into the castle, leaving his guests to mumble in confused alarm.
“What can he mean by this? Oh, Durwin . . .” Alinea turned to the hermit, eyes filling with tears. “Is he . . . ?”
“No, no. Do not be alarmed. He is as sane as you or I, perhaps the more. I believe that his great heart feels deeply for the land. Somehow it is part of him; when it hurts, he hurts. I am certain that I am telling you nothing you do not already know.”
“That may be, but it is good to hear another say it. I have long known him to be unable to enter into gaiety when there is any unhappiness he may cure. But he has never taken it to this extreme.”
“Pray that I am wrong, my lady. But it may be that we will have cause ere long to look upon Eskevar’s ill-timed warning as the act of a most brave and noble soul. I think he senses something that is not yet apparent to us. I fear we will share his forebodings too soon.”