The sword and the flame

TWENTY

“THE PRINCE… here? By the gods’ beards! It is a mistake. A terrible mistake. You have implicated the High Temple in your schemes. I will not have it! Do you hear? 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 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 should 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 not 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.

“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 her 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 raw-boned 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 stretched 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.

“Renny, I have a boy just like you,” said Quentin. A knife sliced at his heart with the words, for again he remembered that his son was gone. “His name is Gerin,” he continued, forcing a smile, “and he is about your age.”

“Does he have a horse?” asked Renny.

“No,” replied Quentin. It was true, for although Gerin could well choose any horse in the King’s stable to ride, he did not have one of his own. “But he likes to ride. Do you like to ride?”

The youngster’s face suddenly saddened. “I-I’ve ne’re been on a horse, Sire.” The awful truth was out and the boy felt better for it, for he brightened instantly and announced, “But when I get big I’ll have a horse an’ I’ll be a knight!”

Quentin chuckled at the certainty in the young voice. “I am sure you shall!” he agreed, and then added: “would you like to ride a horse?”

The dark eyes went wide and rolled toward the nearest parent for approval. “‘Tis all ‘ee’s ever wanted t’do,” said the fanner. “Tis all’ee talks of.”

“Then today you shall have your wish, brave sir!” said Quentin. He led the youngster by the hand over to where Blazer stood quietly. The horse seemed to grow in size as they approached, and Quentin felt Kenny’s hand grip his tightly. “This one is a well-trained mount. He will not harm his rider.”

With that assurance, Quentin picked the boy up and put him in the saddle. The boy wore a dazed expression, unable to fathom his immediate good fortune or sort out the innumerable sensations assailing him in this miraculous instant.

The King handed him the reins and placed them just so in his hands. Then, when Renny was situated, Quentin took Blazer’s bridle and began leading him around the yard. The fanner and his wife stood together clutching each other, beaming happily as they watched their son ride the King’s own stallion.

Quentin, too, felt their joy, and he laughed out loud. It felt good to laugh, and so easy. He had begun to think he would never laugh again.

Renny, for his part, celebrated the occasion with all the solemn pomp his young frame could muster. He sat rigid in the saddle, his back straight as any lance, eyes level, shoulders square: the very picture of a knight riding into battle, full of courage, the victory sure, the foe all but vanquished.

Then Quentin showed the boy how to pull the reins to one side or the other to make the horse turn, how to make him stop and go. Renny took in this information gravely, studiously. “Do you think you can remember all that?”

“Aye,” nodded the boy.

“Then he is yours to lead. Ride him, young master.” Quentin stepped away from the horse, and Renny threw a half-worried, half-exultant look to his parents, kicked his heels gently into Blazer’s flanks, lifted the reins, and began to ride the horse around the yard. Blazer, champion of battle, high-spirited and fleet as the wind over the plain, behaved as docilely as any plow horse. He stepped lightly around the yard, circling the three spectators, tossing his head and snorting now and then, to the delight of all.

When the ride was over at last, Blazer came to stand before his master. Before Quentin could reach up a hand, Renny threw his leg over the pommel and slid from the saddle as expertly as any knight. He wore a look of dazzled triumph that seemed to say, I have ridden the King’s horse! I will be a knight!

“Well done, lad!” shouted Quentin, clapping the boy on the back. “Well done!”

Kenny’s parents ran forward to embrace him, as pleased for his good fortune as if it had been their own dream’s fulfillment. Quentin was moved by this spectacle of love between the members of this simple family. His heart went out to them.

“Thank ‘ee, Sire,” said the farmer’s wife. She grabbed his hand and kissed it.

“This be a proud day, Sire,” crowed the farmer. There were tears of joy sparkling at the corners of his eye. “Me son astride the King’s charger…” There were no more words to describe the pride he felt.

“Please, it is but a little thing,” replied Quentin. “I was happy to do it.”

“You must stay t’ supper, m’lord,” said the woman. Then she blinked in amazement, realizing what she had said. She had just invited the King to supper! In her kitchen! Oh, my!

Quentin began to make his apology, but stopped and turned toward the road. The shadows of evening were stretching across the land. The sun had grown into a great blazing red fireball as it touched the far horizon. He was tired, and the thought of climbing back into the saddle and riding on to Askelon seemed repugnant at the moment.

“Madame,” said Quentin, as he would address any noble’s wife, “I would be honored to partake of an evening meal with you.”

At once her eyes grew round and her jaw dropped; she turned to look at her husband, who merely peered back at her with the same expression of absolute astonishment. Then she gathered her skirts and dashed for the house to begin preparing the meal. Quentin smiled to see her go.

“M’lord,” said the farmer when she had gone, “ ‘low me t’ look after yer steed. ‘Ee must be hungry after a long day’s travlin’.”

“Thank you, that would be most kind.”

The farmer led Blazer away to the small barn set alongside the house at the back. The horse, sensing feed was close, picked up his hooves and fairly pranced away. Little Renny watched him go, his eyes still sparkling like stars. He had relived his momentous ride a hundred times already in his mind.

Quentin sat back on the edge of the well, folding his arms across his chest. Perhaps he should not have accepted the invitation; maybe he should not delay on the road. Ah, but he could not go back on his acceptance now. Furthermore, he could leave before dawn and be in Askelon early in the morning, and he could use the rest. Here, perhaps, he could forget his troubles for an hour, eat and sleep, forget.

“Why are you sad?” chirped a young voice beside him.

Quentin stirred himself and looked up to see Renny studying him carefully. “I was just thinking, lad.”

“Thinking about your own little boy? He’s the Prince!” Renny informed him.

“I suppose I was. Yes, he is the Prince-”

“And you’re out searching for him,” said Renny, finishing his thought. “Bad men took him away, and we must all keep our eyes an’ ears open so’s to see or hear ‘bout him.”

Quentin smiled sadly. Bad news does fly with eagle’s wings, he thought. Yes, they all know what has happened. All of Mensandor would know by now. His grief was not as private as he supposed. Nothing about him was private anymore. The Dragon King’s life was gossip, legend, and song to them.

What would they all think when they learned he had lost the flaming sword, Zhaligkeer, the Shining One, symbol of his authority and divine appointment? What would they say of him then?

“Don’t ‘ee worry, Sire,” said the boy. “ ‘Ee’ll find the Prince! ‘Ee’re the Dragon King! ‘Ee can do anything!”

“Yes,” replied Quentin, ruffling the boy’s dark hair absently, “we’ll find him.” Please, let us find him!

The farmer returned from tending to Blazer and came to stand before the King, not daring to break in on his thoughts by speaking. He just stood there silently and waited. There came a call from the house and when Quentin did not stir, the farmer announced, “M’lord, supper’s set’n.”

The evening sky glimmered with the sunset; the soft white clouds were tinted pink and orange. Crickets sang in the grass at the edge of the road, and swallows skipped and darted in the blue air.

The world seemed poised on a fine silken thread, perfectly balanced between night and day. Quentin sighed and stood. The thread snapped, and the world rolled on toward night.

They walked quietly to the house, dipped their hands into a basin sitting on a stool near the door, and then went in to their supper.