Inwardly, all who saw him in his grave wished that their own deaths could be so: assured, dignified, and peaceful. And many believed from that day forth that Durwin was right about the Most High, for they, too, wanted to go where he had gone.
When at last all had paid their respects to the body—Princess Brianna and Princess Elena being the last to lay flowers in the grave— Toli and five knights shoveled dirt into the hole; then, one by one, the mourners took up stones and placed them on the tomb.
“Quentin would have wanted him buried in the Ring of the Kings,” observed Bria as she watched the stones being placed over the grave. “But this is better, more fitting.”
“I agree,” replied Alinea. “Here among the trees he loved, where wild things lived . . . This is where he belongs.”
They turned then and made their way back to the castle, leaving any lingering sadness behind—all except Toli. He stayed when everyone else had gone and stood unmoving over the grave for a long time. Then, at last, he mounted Riv and left. But he did not ride back to Askelon Castle with the others.
“Where is Toli?” asked Esme as she swiveled in the saddle, looking for him. But he was not among those who followed.
“Strange,” said Bria. She craned her neck around too. “I do not see him anywhere. I thought he had come with the others.”
Esme turned her eyes back toward the grave site, but there was nothing to be seen. Toli had vanished.
20
The prince . . . here? By the gods’ beards! It is a mistake. You have implicated the High Temple in your schemes. I will not have it! I will not have it!”
High Priest Pluell raved and tore at his hair as he paced back and forth in his chamber. Nimrood sat with hooded eyes, watching Pluell vent his anger, but saying nothing.
The high priest came to stand in front of the white-bearded old man, hands on hips. “The temple is in danger now because of you. This was not in our agreement. You never said anything about kidnapping. I will not have it!”
At last Nimrood had enough. He stood, shot a withering glance at the high priest, and stalked to the door.
“Wait! What are you going to do? Where are you going?”
“I am leaving. It is plain you have lost your nerve for our little diversion. I have no use for you. Good-bye.”
“No!” shouted Pluell. “You cannot do that! What about the prince? What am I to do with him?”
“Do anything you like with him. What do I care? He might make a serviceable acolyte, though I think his father might have something to say about that.”
“Stop! Come back. You cannot leave me like this. This was never my affair!”
Nimrood stopped with his hand on the latch. “Never your affair? Ha!” He turned suddenly, his eyes darting flames. Pluell saw the change and dropped back, his mouth gaping. Nimrood advanced on him, seeming to grow in height.
“Was it my idea?”
“Who else? You are not suggesting it was mine!”
“None other’s. I merely indicated to you the danger to the temple if you did not act at once. It was your men who took the boy. It was their mistake. You are the high priest—you are responsible.”
“No! You tricked me! I told you to . . . to—”
“Exactly. You told me to do what needed to be done. We would not be here now if your stupid men had done their duty. I certainly never wanted it this way.”
“You must help me!” wailed Pluell. The shock and rage at what Nimrood had done to him subsided in the new horror of perhaps facing the outraged king alone. Why, the Dragon King would hew him limb from limb for the attack on his son! “I am sorry. I apologize. I was not thinking clearly. Stay and help me think what to do.”
Nimrood pulled on his beard. He appeared to be contemplating what should be done. Ah! he thought to himself. So easy! This pigeon is so deftly caught. He has no nerve, no backbone. He deserves his fate. But I can use him; therefore I will save him. Oh, this is working much better than I could have hoped.
“Very well, I will stay. But you must stop whimpering and do as I say. I have a plan. A very simple plan. And if all goes well, in a short while you, my pigeon priest, will hold the king in the palm of your plump hand.”
Working outward from the place where the prince was last seen, Theido and Ronsard and their search party of knights combed the forest, fanning out from that central point, probing deeper into the heart of Pelgrin. The knights rode the shaded pathways and dimly lit trails; Theido and Ronsard rode with them, meeting at prearranged spots to confer and share any news.
There was precious little news to share. No one had turned up any sign of the abductors.
“They appear to have vanished from the face of the earth,” said Ronsard when they met for their final conference of the day.
“We should have seen some sign of them by now.” Theido gazed at the sky overhead. The clouds held an orange tint as the sun spun lower in the trees. “It will be dusk soon, and too dark to search any further.”
Ronsard scanned the sky through the open patches in the leafy canopy overhead. “Blast their bones! By the god, I had hoped to strike their trail today.” He looked at Theido, whose eyes held a faraway look. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing—it was nothing.”
Ronsard shook his head. “I know that look of yours. Out with it, Theido.”
Theido nodded slowly. “I was thinking about what Toli said regarding Quentin’s sword.”
“Now, there is a puzzle. I wonder what is behind it.”
“Nothing good, you may be sure. I was thinking just now that it portends a greater evil than the prince’s disappearance, and that is bad enough.”
Ronsard stared at his friend knowingly. “Aye, the Shining One is not to be parted with lightly. I would have thought Quentin would fight to the death before giving it up.”
“You speak my thoughts to a word. And yet, when Toli met him in the road, he did not speak of it at all. Why, I wonder.” Theido glanced at the sky once more and said, “One problem at a time, eh? We will start again at daybreak.”
“Yes, tomorrow—and that is the last good day. The signs, if they are out there, are already disappearing.”
Theido turned his horse and made to move away. “Farewell, Ronsard. I will meet you tomorrow at the same time. If we have not found the trail by then, well—just pray that we find it.”
Ronsard raised his hand in farewell and watched the tall, lean knight ride away, back along the way he had come. Theido is right, he thought. Something is at work here that bodes ill for all of us. What it is we shall find out soon enough, I’ll warrant.
He sighed and moved off through the deepening shadows to meet with his men once more before he rolled himself in his cloak to sleep. All around, the wood lay still and silent, as if contemplating the coming of the night. Ronsard felt a chill creeping out with the shadows, and with it a sinister foreboding such as he had never felt in many years. He shuddered inwardly and rode on.
“If you think it unwise, Mother, or if you would advise a better plan, please tell me.” Bria watched her mother carefully, almost breathlessly. Hers had been a sudden thought, and she had gone immediately to her mother’s apartments to share her idea.
“I do not say it is unwise,” said Alinea slowly and with great concentration. “But I do have misgivings.”
Bria frowned at the word. But her mother continued. “However, I remember another time, years ago, when Durwin counseled the same plan. Then, too, it seemed a chancy enterprise. But it was the right course, as it turned out—though even Durwin could never have guessed the outcome.” She smiled at her daughter, and Bria saw the light in her green eyes. “It seems that the destinies of Askelon and Dekra are ever intertwined. Yes, my dear, go to Dekra. I will go too.”
“Mother, do you mean it? You would go?”
“Why not? I am fit for a journey. And now that the king’s road is complete to Malmarby, the trip will be an easy one most of the way. But we must leave at once.”
She glanced at her daughter quickly. “What is wrong?”
“You spoke of misgivings. What are they?”
“Just that word may come to Askelon about the prince. If you were not here to receive it . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“I see. What should I do?”
“That I cannot tell you. You must do what any mother does; you must listen to your heart.”
“Then I will go to Dekra and speak to the elders there. We have often had reason to seek their wisdom, and their prayers may be most effective.” Her eyes held her mother’s. “I do so wish that Quentin were here, though.”
“Quentin will return soon. We will leave behind a letter telling him what we propose. He would wish to stay here in any case to aid in the search.”
“What about Brianna and Elena—I fear leaving them.”
“They will come with us. Why not? They have begged to see Dekra often enough, and they will enjoy the trip. As it is, I think it would be unwise to leave them. We will take a coach and a bodyguard of knights, and travel the safer.”
Bria smiled, feeling better for having talked with her mother. “Yes, naturally you are right.”
“It will be better for us to have something to do. The waiting would weigh heavily on us, I fear. If word was long in coming . . . well, we will go. We must not think of anything but Gerin’s welfare. The elders at Dekra will be able to help.”
Bria gazed at her mother admiringly, and then threw her arms around her neck in a hug. “Oh, thank you. I knew you would say the right thing.”
Alinea patted her daughter’s back. “Poor Quentin. I pray that the waiting does not distress him overmuch. I would feel better if Toli were here. Perhaps he will soon return.”
“When should we leave?”
“Just as soon as the horses and supplies can be made ready.”
“Tomorrow morning, then. We will rest better in our own beds tonight, and leave at first light.”
Alinea nodded her assent. Bria bent and kissed her mother and then hurried away, her mind already filled with dozens of details that would require attention before they could leave. Alinea watched her go, thinking back on a time when she had planned the same journey. She smiled, nodded, and went back to her prayers.
21
Quentin gave Blazer his head and let the animal take them home. The road was easy to follow, and the horse knew the way back to Askelon. Quentin rode without knowing or caring where they went, and Blazer unerringly led them homeward.
As the way through Pelgrin merged green and leafy with the cool blue shadows, Quentin, benumbed from lack of sleep, felt himself drifting back to the strange meeting on the island.
That he had been specifically summoned to Holy Island he had no doubt. By whatever subtle magic, he was drawn to the lake and was there waiting when the boat arrived to take him to the ring of stones. Enchantment, surely. But for what purpose?
Quentin could not say. As for the man—the mysterious stranger who spoke with him, knew him, called him by name—who was he? In some inexplicable way he felt he knew that man, had known him for a long time, even though he had never met him before that hour.
Or had he?
It was as if a friend had gone on a long journey to a country far away and returned after many years vastly changed, though still basically the same person underneath, and it was the change wrought in this man that shielded his identity.
“Call me your friend,” the man had said, “for friend I am.”
I am in need of a friend, thought Quentin. Sorely in need.
He felt a loneliness take hold of him he had not felt in many years— not since, as a young acolyte in the High Temple, had he experienced the same crushing weight of utter aloneness. In his mind he traveled back to that time, and once again he was that gangly young boy clinging frightened to the mane of the mighty warhorse Balder, setting out on an errand at which he could not possibly succeed, but going anyway.
Such hope, such blindness.
Oh, to be that trusting boy again, thought Quentin. He felt the weight of years upon him, and tasted the bittersweet longing for that simpler, better time. He let himself drift off on waves of longing and loneliness.
When he came out of his reflections, he saw that the sun was lowering over the road, and also that he was leaving the forest. Upon returning from the island, he had found Blazer waiting for him on the shore. He had beached the ox-hide boat and ridden away, not stopping all day. Now he felt the ache of the road seize him in an iron grip. His head throbbed.
He rode out of the forest and down a slight hill into a broad valley. Here in this valley were the farms of peasants and small landowners— those who sold their produce in the market at Askelon. Just a little ahead, Quentin saw the wattled house of a farmer, watched the man leading his team of oxen in from the field, and his wife at the well dipping water, and decided to stop for a moment to wash the dust of the road from his throat and to rest his horse. But only for a moment, because he wanted to be in Askelon by nightfall.
“Ho there!” called Quentin as he rode into the yard scratched bare by clucking chickens. “Good day to you!” He sat and waited for the farmer to show himself.
A face appeared at a dark window—just a fleeting glimpse, and then it was gone. A moment later the farmer came around the side of the house, carrying a two-pronged wooden pitchfork in his hand.
He stared at Quentin warily, but with a certain respect. “G’day to ’ee, sir,” said the farmer. His weather-browned face scrutinized the visitor frankly. If there was a trace of distrust, it was only the normal, benign distrust all simple people held for strangers who were obviously above them. Quentin smiled at the farmer and said, “It is a hot day for traveling, but good for the crops.”
The farmer squinted his eyes up to the sky and seemed to lose himself among the clouds scudding swiftly toward the horizon. At length he rolled an eye back to Quentin and said, “Trav’lin’s oft a thirsty bi’ness.”
“Now that you mention it,” replied Quentin, “I would like a drink of water.”
“Help ’eself,” said the farmer, nodding toward the well.
Quentin slowly dismounted and walked to the well, feeling every jounce of the road in each stiff step. He settled himself on the edge of the stonework and took up the dipping gourd. He played out the braided cord, filled the gourd, and then took the brimming vessel to his horse.
Blazer, his shining white coat now dusty brown-gray, plunged his broad muzzle into the water and drank deeply. As Quentin held the gourd he noticed a movement in the doorway of the house nearby. The farmer’s wife joined her husband, and Quentin fell under sharp scrutiny. There was a mumble of whispered words behind him. He wondered what the woman was saying to her husband. When he turned around, he understood, for he saw a look of awe blossom on their ruddy features—the look that accompanied him whenever he made his way in public. It reminded him that he was the Dragon King.
He looked at them, and they bowed low, both of them, awkward and self-conscious. “Rise, my friends,” he said softly.
“I—I did not know as ’twas ’ee, Sire,” stammered the farmer. “I be yer ’umble servant.”
Quentin patted his dusty clothes. “How could you know, good man?” Little puffs of dust accompanied each pat. “I look more a highwayman than a king.”
The farmer’s rawboned wife nudged her man with an elbow, and he jumped forward at once and took the gourd. “’Low me, Sire.”
Quentin was about to protest, but thought better of it and allowed the man his pleasure, knowing that for years to come the farmer would tell his friends and relatives of the day he had watered the king’s horse.
Sitting on the edge of the well once more, Quentin turned his eyes to the house and noted its rude construction. Though it was a most simple structure, made from the cheapest materials—mud daubed over woven sticks on a timber frame and topped with a roof of thatch—it was clean, and all was orderly in the yard. It was identical to any number of households that s
tretched from one end of Mensandor to the other—from Wilderby to Woodsend.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a quick flick of a shadow as it darted and disappeared around the corner of the house. He watched the spot for a moment and was rewarded by seeing a pair of wide, dark eyes and a pale forehead poke around the edge of the house once more.
Quentin smiled and raised his hand, beckoning to the owner of those eyes to come out and join him. Presently, a grubby young boy stepped hesitantly around the corner, keeping his back pressed against the house, inching toward the stranger with the shyness of a wild creature of the forest. The dark-eyed youngster was dressed in a long, hand-me-down tunic resewn for him, no doubt, from one of his father’s. The edges of this garment were frazzled and frayed, and the threads blew in the breeze like tassels. He stared at the newcomer with open curiosity and admiration—as much for the great warhorse drinking from the gourd his father held as for the horse’s rider.
“Come here, boy.”
The lad’s mother rushed over to him and wiped his face with her dirty apron, rubbing spittle on his cheeks and chin. When the youth was presentable, she pushed him forward. The boy resisted, bashful before the king.
Quentin nodded and smiled. The boy was a little older than Prince Gerin, and though of more slender build, he had the same unruly, dark brown hair.
“It is the king!” his mother whispered harshly in his ear. “Show yer manners!”
Whether the youth understood who it was that waited for him or not, in his eyes it did not greatly matter. Anyone who rode a steed such as the one that stood in the yard before him qualified as royalty in his young opinion.
His mother prodded him to stand before Quentin, where he gazed at his unshod feet and drew lines in the dirt with his toe. Quentin put his hands on his slim shoulders. “What is your name, lad?”
The answer was some moments in coming. “Renny, Sire.” The voice was scarcely audible.