The Prince pulled on his chin and threw his counselor a fretful glance. “I suppose you are right. But I would go to my summer quarters in a better mind if these loose threads were clipped and discarded.”
“Say no more. If you like I shall remain behind until I myself can bring you the news you seek.” Ontescue smiled his most ingratiating and winsome smile.
“You are a good counselor, Ontescue,” replied Jaspin, glad to have the matter taken care of. “I will tell you this: I can use men of your abilities when I come into my power-that will not be long in coming now. Sir Bran and Sir Grenett are good men, but they are, after all, soldiers and understand not the finesse of court and government. You, though you may not admit it, have special gifts in this area, I perceive.”
“You are too kind, my Lord.” Ontescue bowed and looked appropriately innocent to deserve such favor; inwardly he leapt for joy that his goal was so near within his grasp.
In all the Prince took fifty knights and nobles with him to his summer palace. Counting their servants and men-at-arms, the numbers swelled to five times as many.
The pilgrimage to Erlott Fields, the Prince’s private castle wherein he resided some four or five months of the year, was a drawn-out affair commanding more regard than it warranted. But Jaspin would have it no other way. Being within an hour’s riding distance of the sea the climate remained somewhat cooler there during the hotter months, and though many times smaller than Askelon it was nonetheless well fortified and ample for any prince’s needs. Castle Erlott housed his fluctuating retinue with ease.
The coming of the Prince to Hinsenby, the nearest village, was always a gala event. People lined the roads as the royal caravan passed. They marveled at the knights and horses, the weapons and costly furniture they saw carefully packed away on the wagons. It was a show well attended with merry-making and festivity. Jaspin himself usually participated, supplying a good deal of meat and wine to the occasion.
This year Jaspin was weeks early in his desire to remove to the safety of his own battlements. Two things occasioned his somewhat premature notion: his own growing uneasiness about his alliance with Nimrood, who was showing himself to be a perverse and ambitious ally, and his wish to remain apart from Askelon until the Council of Regents should meet and declare him king. Then he planned a glorious triumphal entrance to the great city as its monarch. He did not wish to lessen the impact of his brightest moment by remaining in Askelon until the deed was accomplished. Jaspin reveled in the pomp and splendor of such events. He knew how to please the common people and wooed them with lavish spectacle and cheap entertainment to divert their wandering attention from their troubles, and thus silence any defaming tongue.
A chill yet sunny day greeted the departure of the Prince and his army of nobles and knights, servants and soldiers, and various minstrels, game masters and ladies who had been invited to help while away the cool spring evenings. A day of good travel would bring them south to Hinsenby, there to encamp and enjoy a day of sport before removing to Erlott, another half-day’s march to the west.
The day proved fair for the journey, and they achieved Hinsenby well before dusk. The servants set about erecting the bright, multicolored tents used on these occasions as they took the broad fields just west of the town. Under the sparkling eyes and laughter of the townspeople, the tent city blossomed. A great bonfire sparked to life in the center of the field, and smaller fires for cooking flamed around it and in front of the various tents. Eating and drinking would continue through the night, and on the morrow a mock tournament would be held among the knights and the more adept of their sidemen. It was done for play and practice for the knights, and for the grand sight it presented to the people who would crowd the perimeter to see the spectacle of horses clashing under gallant knights, dangerously armed. Much care was taken to prevent anyone from being harmed accidentally, for there was no renown in being wounded in a mock tourney, and a knight indisposed was without honor or a source of income. Like knights anywhere, most relied on their skill at arms to secure the favor and patronage of a wealthy nobleman-that is, those who were not themselves of noble birth.
In his large tent, raised above the others on a wooden platform, Jaspin slept uneasily while the raucous sounds of the roistering crowd continued far into the night. The Prince, begging leave of his merry followers, had retired early saying he wanted to present himself fresh for the tournament on the following morning. In truth he had grown restive and disturbed, having brooded the whole day upon Queen Alinea’s disappearance and the lack of effect from the Harriers he had sent out to bring back the fugitives.
He took to his bed in an apprehensive mood and fell at once into a troubled, dream-filled sleep in which the ghost of his brother rose up accusingly before him demanding to know what had happened to his wife Alinea.
Twice during the night he awoke to the feeling of a lurking presence somewhere close by-as if someone were prowling around outside. Each time he called for his chamberlain who denied, after checking the circumference of the tent, that anything was amiss.
By morning he had all but forgotten his unpleasant night; the prospect of games greatly cheered him. All that remained of his midnight misgivings was an occasional twinge of foreboding, vague and undefined, as if bad news were winging its way toward him unexpectedly.
But his disquiet vanished as preparations began for the mock tournament. The boundaries of the fighting field were drawn and marked with lances bearing red and gold pennons. Tents at either end of the field were converted for the use of the knights who would engage themselves in the combat. The weapons were readied-all sharp edges wrapped in leather and the points of the lances blunted with wooden protectors. Helmets, shields, and breastplates were shined and devices and insignias painted fresh where use had rubbed them thin.
The people of Hinsenby and beyond, some who had walked all night, assembled on the somewhat soggy Hinsen Field early in the morning. Most had brought with them baskets of food and drink to last the whole day; others bartered with the local merchants who took advantage of the sudden influx of visitors to vend special delicacies-sausages and rolls and spicy meat pies of a small, portable nature.
The midday sun, bright and warm before its season, found all in readiness. Jaspin sat under a canopy on a raised platform overlooking the field of contest; a score or more of his favorite nobles graced seats on either side of him. Ladies, their faces demurely covered from the sun, sat below just in front of the platform. Publicly these fair damsels decried the rough sport of the tournament, but not one flinched from the clash of arms, or from the issue of blood that often accompanied the games.
When all contestants, buckled and braced and mounted on their sturdy warhorses, had ridden twice around the lists, the marshall of the games took his place upon the field and read out the rules of the tournament to the participants now lining either end of the field.
Lots had been drawn to decide the order of the knights to participate. Sir Grenett had won first place and advanced across the field, paused, and turned in front of Prince Jaspin’s party.
“For Mensandor and glory!” he shouted. All the people returned the cry, “For freedom! Fight on!” Prince Jaspin dipped his head and Sir Grenett rode to the knight he chose as his opponent, picking him from among the mounted knights assembled in a long line at the west end of the field. He stopped before Sir Weilmar and touched his buckler with the point of his lance. The two then rode out to take their places at either end of the field.
At the signal, the Prince’s falling glove, both riders spurred their charges forward, lances held high. As they closed upon one another in the center of the field, the combatants lowered their lances and made ready to exchange blows.
Sir Weilmar’s aim was good. He placed his blow precisely on target in the center of Sir Grenett’s chest. Sir Grenett was no less precise and the shock of the collision staggered both horses. Sir Weilmar’s lance splintered like kindling as it glanced off his competitor’s heavy armor. Sir
Grenett would have fared no better but for the strength of his arm and his own slightly more advantageous weight in the saddle. His blow caught Sir Weilmar and lifted him in the saddle, but Weilmar’s excellent horsemanship kept him at the reins, causing instead his saddle bindings to burst.
Weilmar’s saddle slid to the side, and both saddle and knight tumbled over the rear of the horse to the ground. This slight advantage was accorded to Sir Grenett’s favor, since neither had won a decisive fall.
All this took place in a twinkling amidst the general clamor and cheering of the crowd, many of whom had placed wagers upon their favorites. The marshall accorded Sir Grenett the victor and Sir Weilmar vanquished. The two retired to watch the rest of the games in peace, having won enough valor for the day, and the next two contestants took their places. Sir Grenett received a gold sovereign for his victory; Sir Weilmar, nothing but a broken cinch strap and fleeting disgrace.
The games moved through their course to the delight of the gathered onlookers. One after another, each knight tried his strength and skill at arms. The games continued to the delight of the spectators, when midway through the contests a murmur of alarm arose from the far side of the field opposite Prince Jaspin’s canopy. The riders awaiting the signal for their turn at the joust paused and turned their attention toward the crowd to see what the disturbance might be.
“What in Oiphe’s name!” cursed the Prince as spectators, apparently frightened by some cause as yet unapparent, fled into the field.
“Someone has undoubtedly seen a snake in the grass,” laughed Bascan of Endonny, sitting near the Prince. “Nothing to be concerned about, I am sure.”
Another sought to further the joke adding, “A snake in the grass is better than rats in the cellar.” Everyone laughed again.
The Prince, perceiving this to be a sly comment on his jailing of Weldon and Larcott exploded at the joker. “Who dares ridicule my judgment? Speak up!”
“I meant nothing by it, my Lord. It was only an idle jest…” Sir Brian sputtered. “No offense was intended, I assure you.” He was about to speak further when a gasp arose from the ladies below them and several of the knights on the platform jumped to their feet.
“Blood and thunder!” someone cried. “Who… what is it?”
The throng on the far side of the field had opened, clearing a wide avenue for a lone rider who took the field with a slow, dignified, and somewhat menacing gait. Prince Jaspin’s face drained of its ruddy hue and his hands fluttered like frightened birds in his lap.
A lone Harrier advanced across the field and brought his horse to stand in front of the Prince. On his shoulder perched a large hawk; at his side hung an awkward bundle.
Without a word he loosed the bundle and drew out the contents of the rough sack. The defiant Harrier then raised high into the air for all to see the two severed, bloodied heads of his dead comrades.
TWENTY
QUENTIN stood at the parapet of his room overlooking a dark, mist-shrouded forest feeling useless and disgraced at being left behind. His hand hung at his side, still holding the letters left for him by his friends, and which he had just reread yet once again.
He heard a sound behind him and turned; it was Mollena, his aging nurse. She hobbled in, glancing at his empty bed and then out onto the balcony, and smiled a toothless grin when she saw him.
“Come in, young master. You will be chilled standing out there like that. Warmth comes to these old mountains but slowly. You’ll be needing your cloak a good spell yet.”
Quentin said nothing, but came reluctantly inside and threw himself upon the bed.
“You are feeling stronger, I can tell. But not so much is good for you yet. Your feet are anxious, but your heart needs rest.” She paused and looked at Quentin’s fallen countenance. “What you have read troubles your soul, my bold young man?”
“They left me, Mollena. Why?” Quentin knew why; he merely wanted some other assurance that he had not been forgotten.
“It could not be any other way. That I know.” She spoke these words in a queer way. Quentin rolled over and looked at her. The Curatak were an odd people and knew many things by many strange ways.
“What do you know?” he asked, much as one would ask a soothsayer to divulge his future.
“I know that your friend Toli waits for you below. Come, the walk will do you good, I think.”
Quentin slid off the bed and shuffled to the door. “Here,” said Mollena as he stepped across the threshold, “remember your cloak.” Quentin took it and threw it across his shoulders and went with the old woman down to meet his friend.
Under the old healer’s ministrations Quentin had revived and awakened three days after Theido and the others had set out. He had opened his eyes, as if from a long night’s sleep, hungry and not more than a little lightheaded. He lay for a long time trying to remember what had happened to him and how he had come to be where he was. But the attempt was futile.
Somewhere in the far recesses of his mind a shadowy, indistinct dream still lingered-a dream in which he had a part. But it seemed long ago and far removed from himself, as if it had all happened to someone else and he had only read the account of it. He had-in the letters Durwin and Alinea had left behind for him.
Quentin had gotten up to walk around the room on the second day, and had explored the whole of the upper floor the day after that. Under Mollena’s tutelage he had learned something of Dekra and the mysterious Curatak who guarded the ruins.
Dekra was the last stronghold of a great and powerful civilization, a people who had vanished without trace a thousand years before Celbercor had come to forge his kingdom. The Curatak, or Caretakers, had long ago colonized the ruined city and fought back the ever-encroaching weeds and wildlife-and from time to time even discouraged squatters from settling there.
From the dust of crumbling walls and columns in the once-proud city of a highborn race, the Caretakers had rescued the memory of Dekra and its inhabitants. They had delved deeply into their past, learned their ways and customs, and had even effected restoration of much of the ancient city’s common square, or the seat of the government. It was here Quentin and the others had been housed, in the lofty, many-roomed palace of the governor of Dekra, which now served as the central communal dwelling of the Curatak.
Quentin had seen but little of the ruined city, but enough to know that the aura of fear which surrounded the mere mention of the name was totally unfounded. The legends which men told each other in the dark by firelight were assuredly false-if not outright fabrications designed to protect the privacy of the Caretakers and their mission to restore the city to its original splendor-a task which Quentin learned was, to the Curatak, the ultimate in devotion to a people they seemingly worshipped as gods.
The Caretakers believed that the Ariga, Dekra’s original tenants, would someday return to claim their city. The Curatak believed that in that day they would themselves become Ariga by virtue of their loving work.
Where the Caretakers had come from was less certain, for they seemed to care nothing of their own history, only in so much as it helped them to remember Dekra’s. But the original number of a few score had grown into several hundred over the years. Outsiders still occasionally wandered to the city and stayed to embrace the work. The Curatak did not in the least discourage visitors who held nothing but honorable intentions toward them or who wished to study the ancient ways. In fact they were always more than pleased to offer the arts of the departed Ariga to any and all who asked. This they also considered their sacred duty.
Durwin had visited the city on several occasions, staying once for over three years. He had seen and learned much in the ruins and had himself helped in the restoration of one of the main buildings-a temple to the god of the Ariga. A lone god with no name.
“Do you think I will be strong enough to leave soon?” asked Quentin when they had reached the lower floor. They entered a large area which had been partitioned off into smaller rooms, but which retained an
atmosphere of light and openness in what would have been a dark, solid basement in any structure he had ever encountered. Quentin, feeling winded from his walk down so many stairs, sat on a three-legged stool while Mollena stirred herself in another corner of the room. Toli, apparently, had darted off on another of his ceaseless errands.
“Leave soon? That is up to you. You can leave when you feel you must. Or you can stay as long as you wish,” Mollena answered finally. Quentin looked at the old woman’s gray hair and wrinkled, stooped appearance. Anywhere else the woman would have been regarded as one of Orphe’s Daughters. But here she was as much a part of the natural surroundings as the strange architecture he saw and the exotic murals which lined the walls of nearly every building. And there was something in her spirit which made her seem as young and alive as any maid he had ever seen (although for Quentin, those were few indeed).
Quentin always had the impression that Mollena was refraining from telling him too much; that she knew more than she would bear him to hear. And not only Mollena-all the others he had met in the past few days spoke in the same cryptic way.
“Would you teach me something?” he asked, after watching her busy herself with preparing some small morsel for him. She turned to eye him with a long, sideway glance, her head held to one side as if weighing her decision.
“There are a few things I might teach you, though there are others far more learned than I. What would you learn?” she asked.
“I do not know-I mean… I would not know where to start. Tell me what you think I should know of this place, of the world.”
“What I think does not matter a great deal. You must choose yourself how you will go,” Mollena answered, setting a small table before him which contained a bowl of dried fruit and a cup with a warm yellow liquid. “Eat now. Regain your strength. Consider what will help you accomplish your purpose, and that I will teach you.”
Quentin ate and did as she suggested, but at the end of his meal he was no closer to an answer to his own question.
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