The Sword and the Flame

by Stephen Lawhead

  Quentin rose. “Oh, my sides are sore for laughing! What a night! What a night.” He peered around. “Now, where has Toli gone? I would speak with him.”

  “I think he is occupied at present,” replied Bria. “Come along. Speak with him tomorrow.”

  “Esme?”

  “Who do you think? Come along.” Bria tugged on his arm and led him away. They left the hall, and the servants began dousing the torches, giving the great room over to the night.

  No sooner had they reached their chambers than a knock sounded upon the door. “Who can that be?” asked Quentin. He opened the door to see Esme’s companion, Chloe, wringing her hands and tugging at her apron.

  “Sire, I—” She stared past him to Bria. “My lady, I do not know what to do.”

  Bria stepped forward. “What is it, Chloe? What is wrong?”

  “My lady.” She curtsied. “I . . . could you come?”

  “What is it?” demanded Quentin.

  “My lord,” said Bria, “go and see to the children. Tell them good night. I will look in a little later. Go on, now. I will take care of this.” She eased past Quentin and closed the door behind her.

  “Where is she?”

  “In her rooms. She returned some time ago and has been weeping ever since. I can do nothing with her. Oh, my lady! I have never seen her this way. Even when my lord—Lord Rathnor—was angry with her, she did not carry on so. I am afraid—”

  “Calm yourself, my dear. All will be well. Have no fear.”

  When they entered Esme’s apartments, Bria could hear someone sobbing in the chamber beyond. “Stay here, Chloe. I will go to her,” she said softly, and moved to the door. She knocked gently. There was no answer. She opened the door and went in.

  Esme lay facedown on the bed, her shoulders heaving, the sobs welling up from deep inside her. Bria sat down beside her on the huge bed. She placed her hand on her friend’s shoulder, feeling instinctually the depths of her misery.

  “Esme, I am here. I am with you. Tell me what happened.”

  It was a time before Esme could talk. But at last Bria got her to sit up, dry her eyes, and tell her what had taken place.

  “Oh, Bria!” She sniffed, her eyes wet from crying. She twisted a damp handkerchief in her hands. “He hates me! Despises me! And I do not blame him. I should not have come hoping to . . . Oh, I should never have come.”

  “There, now. Toli does not hate you.” Bria said his name; she had guessed what had happened. “I am certain of it. You know how he is.”

  “He ran from me. I went out to him, and he left without a word!”

  Her lips trembled, and she seemed on the verge of another torrent of tears, but took a deep breath and kept them down. “Oh, Bria, how I must have hurt him. I thought—I thought . . . Oh, I do not know what I thought. I was wrong to come here. I was never born for happiness.”

  “Nonsense. Do not talk so!” chided Bria. “You are welcome here; it can never be wrong to come where you are loved and cared for. As for Toli, perhaps it was a mistake to approach him so openly. Obviously, we will need to plan very carefully how best to win him back. But unless I am far wrong, he does not hate you. Never say it! If we could see inside his heart, we would see his love for you has never waned.”

  Esme sniffed miserably. Bria put her arms around her and drew her close. “You have suffered much, Esme. And yet in all your pain, you never allowed yourself to cry out.” To Esme’s questioning glance she replied, “Chloe told me. But why? I would rather hear it from you.”

  Esme gazed at her hands folded on her knees. “I have made such a ruin of my life, Bria. How can you still call me friend?” She placed her hand on Bria’s. “But you always were so much kinder than I.”

  “Nonsense!”

  “No, it is true.”

  Bria pulled Esme more tightly to her, and both women fell silent. When she turned to her friend once more, she found Esme sound asleep. The queen drew a quilt over her and left the room quietly. At the door she paused and looked back. “There is healing here, Esme. Stay with us and let it begin.”

  Quentin was sitting at his great table, frowning over sketches of his temple’s design. The table bore the full weight of a score of drawings, dozens of workmen’s plans, countless lists and inventories of building materials, several clay and stone models of the finished structure, a large plumb bob and line, three mason’s levels, a leather parchment case, and a stone from the site, which acted as a paperweight.

  “You are tired, my lord,” said Bria, coming up behind him. She rested her hands on his shoulders and lightly rubbed his neck. “You stare witless at the scratchings before you.”

  The king raised his face from the page before him and pressed his fists against his eyes. “You are right, my love. Yes, I am tired. There is much to do—”

  “Nothing that will not wait until tomorrow. Come to bed.”

  Quentin put his hands flat on the table and pushed the sketches from him as he stood. He gazed at his wife and smiled gently, then asked, “Is all well with our guest?”

  “Her travels have worn her down, as may be expected. But I think she suffers still from the memory of a loveless marriage, and that is the pain she bears.”

  “He has been dead two years.”

  Bria nodded. “Yes, but deep wounds heal slowly. We do not know how cruelly treated she was.”

  “She will not talk to you?”

  “She speaks of it to no one. But it is plain to see that all is not well. There are many who do not share the joy we know, and Esme is one of those who have traveled a most difficult road.”

  “We will hear of it in time, I imagine. When she is ready, she will tell us.” Quentin yawned and stretched, and together the king and queen went in to their bedchamber.

  Quentin lay for a long time staring into the blackness of the darkened room, thinking about the events of the day past and those of the day to come. He fell asleep with a vision of the completed temple filling his eyes, and dreamed of the day when he would lead his countrymen into the temple to worship the Most High on its day of consecration.

  6

  The day of the King’s Hunt dawned with melancholy reluctance; low, dreary clouds spread over the Plain of Askelon, and gray mists draped the treetops. Those camped abroad and those boarded in the town and in the castle feared rain would spoil the day. But as a wan yellow sun climbed higher into the great vault of the heavens, it gathered strength, flared brighter, its white-hot rays burned away the clouds and warmed the air. Travelers and townspeople streamed into the streets and began the trek to the field. Those still abed in Askelon Castle awakened and rushed to ready themselves for the day’s festivities. Lords and their ladies—from as far away as Endonny and Woodsend, and all places in between—dressed in their finest. Knights donned riding clothes of leather and saw to the grooming of their horses, plaiting tail and mane with ribbons of gold and silver entwined with bells, or dressing their steeds in brightly colored caparisons: red and blue, gold and green, violet and yellow.

  And everywhere, from the chamber of the king to the tents on Askelon Plain, excitement simmered beneath the surface, breaking out in laughter and song and impromptu games. Wagons and handcarts emerged from the castle keeps loaded down with foodstuffs and supplies for the makeshift kitchens arranged on the field under bright yellow canopies.

  Everywhere around the sporting field colorful pavilions of red and silver, bearing the royal device, began filling. Smoke from cooking fires drifted lazily into the windless sky in silken threads. It appeared to any-one observing from the battlements of Askelon Castle that a bold, colorful army had encamped round about, an army whose numbers swelled by degrees ever greater as more and more people made their way to the field.

  “Father! Father, come quickly! Look! Oh, look!” cried the children. They ran and seized Quentin’s hands and pulled him out onto the bartizan outside their rooms. “See! The hunt is almost ready! Look at all the people! Oh, I have never seen so many!” they cried.<
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  “Can we play in the games, Father?” asked Princess Brianna.

  “Of course,” said Quentin. “There will be games for you.” He reached out and patted her head.

  “And watch the circus?” added Princess Elena.

  “Yes! Yes!” laughed Quentin.

  Young Prince Gerin did not ask a favor, considering himself too big for such childish pleasures. He looked out on the scene below and beamed, his face flush with excitement.

  “And what about you, my son? What will you do today?”

  Prince Gerin turned and smiled mysteriously. “I will show you—but not now. It is a secret! A surprise!”

  “Very well,” said Quentin. “If I must wait, I must. But tell me soon, for I do not think I can endure the suspense for long!” He laughed again, then pulled the youngster toward him, rubbing his slim shoulders affectionately.

  “There you are!” said Bria, stepping out onto the bartizan. “The sooner we have our breakfast, the sooner we will join the others, and the festival can begin!”

  The princesses frowned disapprovingly. Prince Gerin whirled away and dashed for the door. “I cannot eat now!” he called. “I must find Toli!” He was gone before his mother could protest.

  “Breakfast is an unwanted intrusion today,” said Quentin. “Besides, there will be time enough and food enough for eating at the field. If any goes hungry this day, it is their own fault and no one else’s.”

  Bria sighed and herded the girls before her, and they went down to eat a hasty meal before departing for the hunt.

  For many days the castle had been bustling with activity. There was food and drink to organize, folded pavilions to haul from storage, and the field to prepare. Minstrels and circus performers, some with trained dogs and bears, had begun arriving in the town. Merchants readied wares that they would offer to the crowds; food vendors prepared their special delicacies.

  Toli and Prince Gerin had arranged their surprise in their own way, practicing the more difficult jumps time and again. The prince had, after many painful tumbles, learned to jump with ease, handling his horse with an expert hand at last.

  “Very good! Excellent!” called Toli that final day. “You are ready for the hunt, young master. I have taught you all I can.”

  “Do you really think so, Toli?”

  Toli nodded solemnly. “A finer rider in this realm would be difficult to find. You are ready. Just remember everything we have practiced and you will ride with the best.”

  “Truly?”

  “Truly.”

  “Father will be so surprised!” the prince shouted. “You will not tell him—”

  “Never fear—I want him to be surprised, too.”

  Those last days had been hard ones for the prince, trying desperately to keep his secret. It burned inside him, threatening to leap to his tongue each time he opened his mouth. But somehow he had managed; the secret was safe.

  Now, as he dashed to the stables to find Toli and to see to his horse, he ran with the speed of his own racing heart. He found Toli saddling his mount for him, examining each tack item as he placed it on the horse. The prince slowed as he came up; Tarky nickered softly as the boy reached out and patted the sleek jaw.

  “You will ride beside me, won’t you, Toli?”

  “Certainly. I shall be right beside you all the way. How else am I to keep up?”

  “Do you think we might find a trophy?”

  “We have as good a chance as any, I’ll warrant. And better than some. We just might find a trophy.”

  The hunters were allowed to hunt for game, but as an added reward there were prizes hidden throughout the forest: trophies of gold and silver, cups and bowls, and other objects of value. This heightened the com-petition and gave extra delight to the sport. Many of the hunters did not even carry weapons, preferring instead to concentrate solely on finding the valuable trinkets. This was what Prince Gerin had in mind as well; he wanted to find a trophy for his father. That would complete the surprise.

  When all was ready the prince hoisted himself into his saddle, heart thumping in his chest. Together Toli and Gerin rode to join the others at the gate.

  “Very well,” spat Nimrood from the shadows. “You know what to do. You have had a good look at him. There must be no mistakes.”

  The six men gathered around him nodded silently. There would be no mistakes because they had come to fear Nimrood greatly and would not risk his disappointment, though none of them had much stomach for what was about to take place.

  “Then disperse carefully. I will await you here. Remember the signal, and look sharp! I do not need to remind you that this is a most dangerous game we are playing. Most dangerous,” he hissed, his eyes darting from one man to the next. “Now, go. And be ready!”

  The six men, the best chosen from among the order of temple guards, faded silently away, their dark clothing melding with the green leaves and deep shadows of Pelgrin Forest.

  Nimrood’s cruel features creased into a malicious grin. “Now it begins. At long last, it begins,” he whispered to himself. “At long last I will have my revenge.”

  7

  The inner ward yard bustled with activity as the king assembled his family and friends. Bria and the princesses would ride to the field in a brightly festooned coach. Quentin and his son would lead the procession on horseback, followed by Durwin and Toli and as many of the noble visitors as had not already left for the field. Esme, however, would not be among them.

  When all was ready, the armorer came hurrying up with a squire at either elbow. One lad carried the king’s shield, burnished bright as a mirror; the other carried, on a long satin pillow, the king’s sword, Zhaligkeer, the Shining One.

  The armorer knelt and offered the king his weapons. Quentin nodded, and the squires helped their master fasten the great sword in place and then handed up the shield, which the king slung over his shoulder.

  Word of the shining sword had long ago spread far and wide throughout the land. There was not a peasant anywhere who had not heard of its forging in the lost mountain mines of the Ariga out of the fabled glowing ore, lanthanil. Far beyond the borders of Mensandor, tales of the Shining One were told, and of the mighty priest king who had come to the throne by a strange and wonderful enchantment. Those who looked upon him now believed those stories more fervently than ever, because he appeared so strong and fearless.

  Quentin mounted Blazer, and the milk-white stallion danced side-ways, anxious to be off. He raised a gloved hand, the inner ward gates were opened wide, and the parade began. They passed into the outer ward and then through the gatehouse, over the huge drawbridge, and down the ramp into the city. And though many townspeople had already left for the festival site, there were still enough to line the streets to wave and cheer and welcome their king. The happy people fell into place behind the procession as it passed, and all made their way to the field.

  Young Gerin, his heart fluttering within him like a captive bird, gawked openly at all around him, feeling proud and important. This day the hunt wore a different look; nothing appeared the same as he remembered it. All had changed, becoming more colorful, more exciting, more thrilling than ever before. For this day he would ride with the hunt!

  He swiveled in his saddle and threw a conspiratorial glance back at Toli, who rode behind him. Toli was talking to Durwin, but saw the look and answered it with a wink.

  Gerin turned his eyes to the sights around him. Jugglers tossed knives and hoops high into the air and caught them deftly; a man with a trained bear on a chain made it stand on its head; acrobats tumbled and threw one another spinning into the air; some boys had made a pair of stilts from the limbs of trees and were trying to master the art of walking on them; vendors cried over the shouts and laughter, hawking their trinkets: fancy ribbons, jewelry, and tiny lacquered boxes.

  The world was alive with sound and color. Here and there music swelled as minstrels gathered small audiences to hear their newest songs; horses cantered and neighed, toss
ing their heads and setting their bells ringing; children ran laughing, their bare feet skipping over the grass.

  The parade entered the field itself, and Gerin turned his eyes to the competition. Ranged around the long rectangle of the field were tents and small pavilions, each with a standard before the entrance bearing the banner of the lord or knight within. Some of the riders were outside their tents, seeing to the last-minute details of tack or weapons. Hunting hounds lay on the grass, waiting for the chase to begin, or strained at their leashes, yapping eagerly at one another as they sensed the moment of their release drawing near.

  Gerin gazed among the pavilions, reading the devices and looking for those that he knew. There was the green oak on a barred field of azure and gold—that was Sir Grenfell. The boar and spear on scarlet belonged to Lord Bossit; and the silver lance and shield on checkered black and white was the blazon of Sir Hedric of Bellavee. There were also Benniot’s silver-and-blue double eagle, Rudd’s red ox on sable, and Fincher’s gauntlet clutching white thunderbolts.

  There were more that he did not know—harts and hounds, mailed fists and morions, poniards and preying birds—but he did not see the two he hoped most to see: the black hawk on crimson, and the gray gauntlet clutching crossed mace and flail.

  “Where is Theido, Father? And Ronsard? I do not see them,” the prince said, craning his neck around the perimeter of the field.

  “They will be here before the hunt is through. Theido sent word that he will arrive tomorrow, and Ronsard likewise. They will not miss the hunt. Do not worry; your friends will come.”

  They arrived at the king’s pavilion and dismounted. The ascending rows of benches were already filled to overflowing, and more people were crowding in. In the very front row, however, were chairs set up behind a banister for the royal family and their entourage. The queen took her place, and the princesses beside her, smiling and waving to all who greeted them. The king, instantly surrounded by well-wishers, slowly made his way to his chair, where he remained standing and signaled the herald.