“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 B
lazer’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.
TWENTY-TWO
DEEP IN Pelgrin’s green heart, Toli paused beside a spring which trickled out from a hillock of white stone into a crystalline pool. He slid from the saddle and led Riv to drink, then knelt himself and cupped water to his lips. The westering sun tinted the sky with evening colors of dusty gold and pale violet, flaming the woodland greens and burnishing the boles of towering chestnut and hawthorn with a gleam like bronze.
Soon night would cover the forest with her dark wing, and he would have to find a sheltered hollow or a dry thicket for the night. But something drew him on, tugged at him gently, urging him to go just a little further.
Do not stop, it whispered in the boughs around him as the evening breezes stirred the green-gold leaves. Ride on.
So, after a last drink from the pool, Toli heaved himself back into the saddle and pushed on, sending his senses ahead of him to sift the air for a clue-a sound, a flicker of color, a scent borne on the air-anything that would tell him what had pricked his instincts and was drawing him forward.
It has been too long since I was in the wild, he reflected. My skills have grown dull. Now, when I need them most, how will I find the Prince?
He rode along, bending his trail here and there through the wood, straining into the gathering twilight. He stopped, held his breath… what was that?
Nothing. He lifted his hands to send Riv forward once more, then hesitated.
There it was again: a soft chirrup, faint as the whirr of insect wings on the breeze. Toli waited for it to come again, and when it did he knew beyond all doubt what it was.
How long has it been since I have heard that sound? he wondered. Then, placing his hand at the side of his mouth, he answered the call with his own-not as softly or skillfully done, but remarkably similar. He repeated the call once, twice, and climbed down from the saddle to wait, his heart thumping against his ribs.
Through a stand of slim young beeches, stepping noiselessly among the low-hanging branches they came: three Jher kinsmen dressed in skins and wearing deerhide pouches at their waists. They hesitated when they saw Toli, but he made no move toward them, so the forest dwellers advanced.
“Colitha tea healla rinoah,” said Toli when they had come as close as they would. In his native tongue it meant, “You have come far south this leaftime.”
“The deer,” the foremost Jher replied in the lilting speech of his people. “It has been dry in the north forest.” He paused and regarded Toli shrewdly. “I am Yona.”
“I am Toli.”
The three Jher glanced among themselves, excitement mirrored in their deep brown liquid eyes. “Yes,” said the leader. “We know. We have been watching you and recognized you. Everyone knows of Toli.”
“How many are with you?” asked Toli.
“Forty men and their women and children,” Yona replied. “It is very dry in the north.”
“Here in the south,” put in one of th
e others, “the deer are fat and run slow. Three tribes are with us.”
“Have you room for one more before your fire this night?”
The three looked at each other, smiled at one another with huge, toothy grins, and hooted in amazement at their good fortune. They all but stumbled over themselves to be the first to lead him back to the Jher camp.
The campfires were lit, and venison roasted on spits over the flames, wafting a tangy scent among the trees and dome-shaped dwellings made of deerhide, bark, and twigs. Toli had not encountered another of his race for many years, and he walked into the Jher encampment as one walking back into his own past. Nothing had changed. Every detail of life for the nomadic forest people remained the same-the deerskin clothing, the meals prepared over open fires, the sparkling dark eyes watching everywhere, the timid children clutching their mothers’ legs, the old men squatting before the flames instructing the young boys in wood lore-all was exactly as he remembered it, the same as it had always been.
His guides brought him to stand in the center of the camp. A good number of Jher had already assembled to see the stranger, and the sight of this Jher prince dressed in the fine clothing of the light-skinned men produced murmurs and hoots and shy pointing as they discussed him. For here was one of their own-some knew who he was and told the others-yet changed almost beyond recognition as a Jher. None of them had ever seen such a transformation.
In a moment there came a stirring at the outer fringes of the ring of onlookers, and a pathway formed through which passed a shrunken old man. He carried a long staff made from an ash sapling on which were affixed the antlers of a buck. This ancient one leaned heavily upon the staff and tottered forward to stand before the visitor. At his appearance all the other Jher became silent as they waited to see what their leader would do.
For his part, Toli waited to be received by the venerated leader, hands held loosely at his sides, eyes lowered as a sign of respect.
The old man came near and stood before Toli, drawing himself up to full height, gazing at him with quick, sharp eyes. “Toli, my son,” he said at last, using the polite form of address of an older man to a younger, “I knew you would come to us again.”
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