Quentin awoke with a start out of a stony sleep and stared uncomprehendingly around him. Where am I? he wondered. How have I come to be here?
Then he remembered rowing to the island and walking and walking, then sinking into sleep. Though his mind was a jumble of half-formed thoughts and fragments of unfinished dreams, waking in this place, he felt strangely certain that he had been drawn here, summoned, and then awakened at the proper moment by the same force that had brought him.
His senses pricked. The place seemed alive with the presence of gods; if he listened very carefully, he could almost hear the murmur of their spirit-voices calling to one another as they plied night’s distant shores.
Quentin felt the nearness of these beings, and his blood quickened. The gods had gathered close about; they watched from every shadow as from behind velvet curtains, and Quentin imagined their dispassionate eyes upon him.
He rose, stiff from exertion, wrapped his arms across his chest, and gazed out across the lake. Mist rose like steam from the still water to thicken and drift in curling tendrils toward the crescent lawn like searching fingers. Quentin stepped to the water’s edge and waited. The ghostly white mist seeped and flowed and eddied on unseen currents in the air, spreading ever nearer. He waited, stomach taut, the night chill stinging his flesh, the sense of expectancy almost overpowering. Blood pulsed rapidly through his veins; he could hear it drumming rhythmically in his ears. All around lay deathly silent.
Quentin stood at the edge of the silver lake and watched as the shifting vapors erected lacework walls over the mirrored surface. As he gazed out over the water, the mist rolled and parted and there emerged a dark shape drifting slowly toward him across the lake. Quentin saw that it was a small boat gliding silently from the wreathing vapors.
No oarsman rowed the vessel; no pilot steered. Wide of hull and low in the water, it drew nearer and came at last to rest at the king’s feet, bumping softly against the grass-covered bank.
He lifted his foot cautiously and stepped into the mysterious craft—as if he thought that it might vanish into the mist once more. But the boat proved solid enough, and Quentin sat down amidships. Then, just as silently and mysteriously as before, the ghostly vessel floated away from the shore, bearing him back across the lake the way it had come.
Sitting stiffly on the wooden bench, Quentin watched as his ship entered the encircling mist. The solid world faded from view, and he was swallowed whole into a netherworld of cloud and insubstantial vapor. He might have been floating or flying, so softly and gently did the boat ride. Not a ripple marked their passage. Straining eyes and ears into the void, he saw and heard nothing.
After a time the mist thinned and parted, and the little craft drifted out into a shallow lagoon rimmed with the massive slabs of great standing stones.
There was some magic in this place; Quentin could feel it now, tingling over him, licking at his face and limbs with subtle fire.
Then he saw the figure.
Before him at the water’s edge stood a man clothed in a long white mantle that glowed in the moon’s radiant beams. He beckoned to Quentin to follow, and as the boat touched shore, Quentin stepped out and hastened after the figure.
They moved across the lawn to the giant stones, passing between them into a circle of smaller stones, many of them leaning or fallen. These stones, like others Quentin had seen in Mensandor, had once stood one upon another in rings at the worship sites of the ancients. The rings were erected in places of power where gods were said to touch the earth.
As they entered this sacred circle of stone, Quentin saw a fire burning brightly and meat roasting on spits. The white-clothed figure sat down on one of the tumbled stones that had grown thick with green moss and white-flecked lichen. The man smiled warmly and gestured for Quentin to sit. Though no words had passed between them, Quentin felt welcomed and unafraid. He watched while the man tended the spits.
The stranger was tall, his body well formed and fit, his features broad, but not coarse or heavy. There was strength in the cut of his jaw and chin. His long, dark hair swept back and was bound in a thong at the back of his head, in the manner of prophets or seers. The man’s eyes were dark, quick firebrands that sparkled in the light of the campfire as he adjusted the roasting meat on the fire with his strong hands.
The fire cracked and ticked, throwing grotesque shadows over the standing stones. A thousand questions boiled in Quentin’s mind, but he remained silent. No word seemed appropriate for this place. So he sat in the warm circle of light and waited.
At last the stranger reached for a nearby jug and poured from it into a wooden cup that he offered to Quentin. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes!” replied Quentin, startled that the man should speak.
“Good.” He laughed, the sound deep and resonant—an earth sound, the sound of forest and hill and streams rolling to the sea.
Quentin laughed too, caught up in the delight of that voice.
“I thought you might be hungry, so I made you something to eat,” explained the mysterious host. “It has been a long journey, and you have ridden far.”
“How did you know?”
His host only smiled and replied, “I know a great many things about you.”
There was something familiar, hauntingly familiar, about the man; his voice and manner Quentin was certain he had known before. But where? The memory eluded him. “There are many who might make a similar claim,” said Quentin. “My name is well enough known.”
“Well said,” replied the man. Mirth danced in his eyes. “You are the Dragon King of Mensandor, and truly many men know your name. But I know a good deal more.”
“Please continue,” said Quentin. Who was this man?
“I know that you are an honorable man whose friends are many. And that you recently lost a friend, one very dear to you. I also know that you stand in danger of losing another even dearer.”
“Is that all?”
“It is enough for now, I think. Here, the meat is ready.” He handed Quentin one of the skewers and kept one, took up his wooden cup, and drank.
Quentin drank too, and thought he had never tasted water so fresh and good. He pulled a piece of meat from the spit and ate it, all the while watching the stranger beside him. “What is your name?” he asked.
“Call me your friend, for friend I am.”
“Friend? Nothing more?”
“What more is needed?”
Quentin ate his food thoughtfully. Who was this friend? And why did he seem so familiar? He drank again and asked, “Where am I? What is this place?”
The man did not answer, but instead asked a question of his own. “You see these stones?”
Quentin nodded.
“They were erected and stood for many hundreds of years. But now they lie abandoned and overgrown. The gods in whose honor they were raised come no more to this place. Why do you think that is?”
Quentin considered this for a moment and then replied, “Could it be that the old gods are dying, or that they never existed in the first place? There are those who say a new era has come upon us, and a new god is making himself known.”
“What do you say?”
“I believe,” Quentin said slowly, choosing his words carefully, “I believe that times change, yes, and new eras are born, but there is only one god who is God of all. Whether other gods exist or never did, I cannot say.”
“Strange words from an acolyte,” said the stranger. His smile was elusive and suggested he held some greater secret to himself.
But Quentin was stunned—it had been a long time since he had been called an acolyte. He had nearly forgotten that he ever served in the temple at all; that seemed long ago. “I was but a boy,” he replied.
“Times change, as you say. But old ways die hard, do they not?”
Quentin said nothing. The man looked around the ring of fallen stones. “Why do you suppose men honor their gods with stone?”
“Stone endures,” said Quentin.
“Yes, but as you see, even stone falls in the end. What is it that endures after stone has crumbled to dust?”
Quentin recognized this question as one that his old teacher Yeseph, the elder of Dekra, had asked him as a pupil many years ago. Old Yeseph, dead now and buried years before. “Man’s spirit endures,” said Quentin. That had been the answer Yeseph had sought.
“And love endures,” the man said simply. “Would it not make more sense to honor the god with love instead of temples made of stone?”
Again a pang of guilt arrowed the king. Who was this man?
“Quentin,” he said softly, “do not be afraid.”
“I am not—,” began Quentin. The man raised a hand and cut him off.
“And do not give yourself to despair. Your enemies seek to humble you, to mock the god you serve. Trust in the Most High, and he will raise you up.”
The man stood and smiled again. “The boat will take you back across the water.”
Quentin jumped up. “Do not go! Please—”
“I must. My time here is finished. I wanted to see you just one more time, to say farewell.”
“No!” cried Quentin, throwing himself to his knees. “Stay with me. I would hear more!”
“It is not to be. But never fear, we will be together again. I am certain of it.” The man smiled his gentle smile and laid a hand on Quentin’s head.
Quentin felt a rush of warmth flood through him at the touch. The panic that had come upon him ceased.
“Before, I did not get the chance to say good-bye as I would have wished.” The man raised Quentin to his feet and wrapped him in a hug. After a moment, clasping his friend’s shoulders with both hands, he held the king back at arm’s length and said, “Good-bye, my friend.”
“Good-bye,” said Quentin. He stood and watched as the man turned and walked toward the wood, passing between two great slabs of stone as through a doorway.
The mist rolled up and removed him from Quentin’s sight, and he was gone.
19
The funeral procession left at dawn and rode through the quiet streets of Askelon, bearing the body of the beloved hermit on a black-draped bier drawn by two of Toli’s finest white horses. It went to the north, where Pelgrin Forest met the plain at its closest point to the castle, a distance of about a league.
The day was fair and warm, the sun rosy-gold in the treetops as it climbed into heaven’s great bowl of cloud-scrubbed blue. The air, soft and still, held the sweetness of wildflowers that grew in haphazard clusters across the tableland—pink and yellow sunlilies, buttercups and bluebuttons, white laceleaves and tiny purple lady’s slippers.
Toli rode Riv and led the bier; Esme and Bria followed, and Alinea came in a coach with Princess Brianna on one side of her and Princess Elena on the other. Nearly threescore mourners made up the cortege— lords and ladies, knights, squires, household servants, and townspeople— all friends of the hermit, for he welcomed every man, whether of high position or of meaner birth, as friend.
And though their errand was a sad one, the day was so bright and the feeling of life so intense that it was not possible for any of the mourners to remain genuinely sorrowful.
“How strange it is,” remarked Bria, thinking about this very thing. “Today I feel newly cleansed. As if the past days have been an unhappy dream that vanished with the dawn.”
“Yes,” agreed Esme. “I feel the same way. And yet, I have not changed—the whole world seems to be newborn.”
They continued to talk this way, and behind them in the coach, the little princesses plied their grandmother with questions. Princess Elena had never attended a funeral, and Princess Brianna only one—that of Yeseph; but she had been a baby less than a year old and did not remember it.
“Grandmother, what will happen to Durwin?”
“Nothing bad, my child. His body will rest now in the earth,” Alinea answered.
“But won’t he get cold?” piped Elena.
“No, never again.”
“I know what will happen,” said Brianna importantly. “He will turn into bones!”
“How awful!” cried little Elena, her eyes sparkling at the mystery of it. “Will I turn into bones, too?”
“Not for a very long time, my dear one. But someday, yes. Everyone dies, and their bodies turn into bones and dust.”
“I do not think I shall like it,” said Elena, growing pensive.
“I will!” announced Brianna, determined to make the best of any situation.
“I do not believe you will even know what has happened, nor will you care. You will begin a wonderful new life somewhere else.”
“Where? Oh, tell us about it, Grandmother,” they said.
“Very well. There is a great kingdom far away—the kingdom of the Most High. When you die, you will go there and live with him. It is a wondrous place and more beautiful than anything you have ever seen. You will leave your body—you will not need it anymore, because you will have a new body—and go and live in happiness forever.”
“Is that where Durwin has gone?”
“Yes, that is where he has gone—to be with the Most High.”
“Will we see Durwin again when we get there?” asked Elena.
“Of course. He will be waiting for us.”
“And Grandfather Eskevar, too?” Brianna wanted to know.
“Yes, Eskevar too.” Alinea smiled. The children were so trusting, so innocent and unsuspicious. They believed what she told them without needing proofs or assurances. Theirs was a most simple and indulgent faith, with room for many questions but little doubt.
“Oh,” said Brianna matter-of-factly, “I shall go at once then. I should love to see Grandfather.”
“It would make us sad if you went right away, dear one,” replied Alinea, smoothing the girl’s hair. “For then we would not see you anymore. Stay with me a little while longer, please.”
“Very well,” agreed Brianna, “I will. I would not like to leave you, Grandmother.” She snuggled in closer.
Of all who traveled in that party, only Toli did not feel the wonder of the day. He rode silently, eyes ahead, unseeing, his mind concentrating on affairs that ripped at his heart and made him want to cry out in agony. I have failed Quentin. I have disgraced myself and brought ruin upon the king. He was right; it was all my fault. My fault alone. Yes, Durwin’s blood is on my head. I am responsible—I should never have left them alone. If I had been there, Durwin would still be alive, and the prince would be safe. None of this would ever have happened. I failed in my duty and am no longer worthy to be called a servant. I must make it right, even if it costs my life. My life—what good is it to me now?
They reached the site and brought the bier to the grave that had been prepared the day before. It was just a little way inside the forest, on the bank overlooking a shaded pool—the pool in which Durwin had waded many times gathering his healing plants.
Alinea had chosen the spot, remembering how he had loved to come here to wade, or just to sit and contemplate. Many times she had found him stretched out on the bank and sat with him as he talked about this or that herb, or shared his musings about the Most High.
“Quentin should be here,” said Bria, “and Gerin. How they both loved Durwin. I wish they were here.” She was quite over her trauma of the night before; in fact, she did not really remember it as having happened to her. It belonged to the dream, the bad dream she had left behind with the new day.
“They will come here soon. I am certain.” Esme watched her friend closely, looking for any sign of the malady that had stricken Bria.
Bria caught her scrutiny and said, “I am much better now.” She paused and then glanced toward the grave. “It is just that it does not seem right without Quentin here.”
“He would be here if he could; you know that. Quentin’s first duty is to find the prince and bring him back safely. The king cannot rest until his son and heir is safe.”
“You are right.” She paused and adde
d, “But look at Toli. It tears at my heart to see him like this.”
Esme observed the slim, silent Jher and nodded sadly. It touched her deeply, too. She wished nothing more than to be able to go to Toli and comfort him; and she would have, but for fear of Toli’s rejection.
For his part, Toli had told no one but Theido of Quentin’s harsh words. Those had been his due; he had deserved them. He signaled to several of the lords and knights in attendance, and they moved to the bier. Laying hold of the long plank on which the body rested, they lifted it to their shoulders. Bria and Esme went to the litter too, and Alinea; they took up bouquets of flowers that had been placed on the funeral wain early that morning and followed the body to the grave.
The men lowered the hermit’s body into the hole dug in the rich, black dirt. Sunlight filled the hole and fell on the pallid face. He seemed to be at rest, content. But he was not now the same Durwin they had known; he had changed. In death he appeared so much less himself that it was impossible for any of the mourners to look upon him now and say, “This is the man we knew in life.”
Durwin—the true essence of the man they had loved—was gone. He had left only a worthless husk behind.
Alinea went to the graveside and knelt to place her flowers by him in the ground. Bria joined her, and Esme. Toli stood silently over the open pit and watched, his eyes hard as polished stone.
Others came to the grave, too, and paused briefly to pay final honor to the man. Here and there a tear sparkled in an eye, but there was no sobbing, no wailing, no evidence of unendurable grief common at so many funerals. All who had come knew that this interment was different: this was the burial of one of the Most High’s trusted servants. And no one who looked upon the body in the grave felt that the man had ceased. The presence of his spirit was strong among them. It would be wrong to regard the holy hermit of Pelgrin Forest as having fallen into shadowy nonexistence in the underworld of the gods. Even those who had never heard of the Most High or his great and wonderful kingdom believed that Durwin had gone to a far different, far better place.
In the Hall of the Dragon King Page 85
