The Sword and the Flame (10 page)

Whoever made those prints had emerged from the forest at this point, having followed the stream until it met the road. Across the stream the tracks led off down the way. Blazer splashed across the water, and Quentin leaned low in the saddle to examine the marks. It was difficult to tell anything for certain from these prints, for there were others all along the road.

The hunt!
thought Quentin.
How dull I am
. These and all the rest were made by people on their way to the festival. At once his hope, so quickly born, died and shrank away. But not entirely. Of all the various tracks in the dust, only a few were leading southward. All the others pointed toward the north and Askelon.

Seizing this meager scrap of evidence, Quentin once again urged the sturdy Blazer onward. The steed flew over the wide road, and the king searched along its length for any trace of his son's passing.

“Listen!” said one temple guard to the other. “Someone comes.”

Both stopped and peered back behind them; on the road they could hear the tinkling jingle of tiny bells—such as a horse would wear on its tack.

“You get off the road. If they stop, draw sword and be ready,” said the first.

“But—,” protested the other. His hands trembled as they touched the weapon concealed beneath his cloak at his side.

“Quickly! I will stay here and try to put them astray.”

“Why were we chosen for this cursed task?” grumbled the other.

“Do as I say! Hurry! They are almost upon us!”

The frightened guard threw a dark look at his comrade, and then disappeared into the undergrowth at the side of the road. In a moment the first could see horse and rider approaching rapidly.

“You there!” shouted Quentin when he came. The nervous accomplice turned and stood blinking at him, pretending to be unsure as to whether it was he who had been addressed. Then his eye caught sight of the wrought gold clasp that secured the rider's cloak—a terrible, twisting dragon, the royal blazon.

A shiver ran through the man as Quentin was recognized; color drained from his face.

“So you know your king when you see him, do you?”

The man licked his lips and said, “I am at your service, Sire.” His eyes shifted unsteadily.

“How long have you been on this road?” demanded Quentin.

“Well, we—that is, I . . . not long . . . I mean—”

“Where are you bound?”

“To Hinsenby, Sire.”

“Are you alone?” Quentin watched the man struggle under his questions.

“Yes, Lord.” The man's eyes shifted again.

“Have you seen anyone on the way?”

The man thought for a moment and then said, “Yes, I did. Only a short while ago it was. Back there—back by the stream. A group of travelers. Merchants, I think.”

“How many?”

“Five, six maybe. Not more. They were bound for Askelon, I would warrant.”

Quentin turned in the saddle and looked behind them. No, the prints had pointed the other way. Then he saw the tracks leading away from the road. He turned back to the man just in time to see him glance to the side and then quickly back.

“Merchants, you said?”

“Sire, I believe they were.”

“And are you a merchant, too?” asked the king suspiciously.

“I am”—the man hesitated—“a pilgrim, Sire.”

“They were going to Askelon, you say? Was there a boy with them, a boy on horseback?”

The supposed pilgrim opened his mouth, but the words stuck on his tongue.

“Answer quickly, friend! I find your manner most peculiar.”

The traveler flushed. “No, there was no boy with them. I saw none, at least.”

“Liar!” shouted Quentin, scowling furiously. “In truth I saw the hoofprints at the water, and they continue this way.”

The temple guard stared at the king sullenly and said nothing.

“It is no small thing to lie to your king,” continued Quentin in a voice strained but in control. “I will give you one more chance. Where did they go?”

“I know not, Sire. Please . . . it is not—”

“Are you in league with them?” shouted Quentin. “Answer me!”

Just then there was a rustle in the bushes at the side of the road. Quentin whirled around as another man, dressed like the first, in dark tunic and long cloak despite the heat of the day, leaped from his hiding place, sword in hand. The second man lunged clumsily forward, eyes showing terror. “Strike!” cried this attacker. Quentin turned to see a blade appear in the first pilgrim's hand as well.

Zhaligkeer sang as it slid from the sheath; the long blade shone forth with cool brilliance from its fierce inner fire. Quentin swung the mighty sword overhead. “You! You killed Durwin!” he cried.

The two men saw the terrible sword and fell back with a startled cry.

“Murderers!” shouted Quentin. “Cowards!”

“Mercy!” cried the first assailant. “Mercy . . . I beg you!”

Rage like molten metal seared through Quentin's mind; its wild fury rushed through him with blinding force. “I will show you mercy,” he cried. “The mercy you showed Durwin!”

Before the man could turn and flee, the Shining One whispered in the air and flashed in a deadly downward arc. The would-be assassin quickly lifted his blade above his head to take the blow, but the sword shattered in his hand, and the pieces fell to earth. He shrieked and fell to his knees, the sound of certain death whistling after him.

“Mercy!” he screamed. “Forgive me!” Bright Zhaligkeer filled his horror-stricken eyes with its unearthly light, and he threw his hands over his face. The stroke caught him at the base of the neck, cutting short his last cry of remorse. The man pitched forward into the road, dead when he met the ground.

A thin crimson ribbon trickled along Zhaligkeer's blade. Quentin swiveled in the saddle to meet the second villain, who threw down his weapon and dived headlong into the brush, disappearing into the forest.

The rage which had burned so hot in Quentin's veins left him as suddenly as it had flared. The king stared at the misshapen heap in the dust, then at the sword in his hand, and his heart froze in his chest. Zhaligkeer's fiery blade now appeared as any ordinary metal, glimmering darkly in the fading light of late afternoon.

The bright white flame of the Shining One had gone out.

12

S
ilently the women entered the glade—little more than a wide place in the trail. Esme swung down from her horse and Bria from hers. Lord Bossit halted the small, two-wheeled wagon that carried the bier. The wooden wheels creaked to a stop, the only sound heard in the place.

“Oh,” gasped Bria as she beheld the beloved hermit. She walked slowly but steadily forward and knelt beside the body. Quietly her tears began to fall.

Esme approached and put an arm around the queen's shoulders.

“Good-bye, fair friend,” whispered Bria. Her outstretched fingers touched Durwin's folded hands, now cold. She then turned to Lord Bossit, who stood reverently nearby. “My mother is waiting,” she said. “Let us take him back.”

Bossit nodded to the driver of the wagon, and the two men lifted the body onto the waiting bier.

When told of the tragedy, Alinea had said nothing, though her hands had trembled. When she had spoken, her voice was soft, yet steady; she had already mastered her grief, or had put it aside for the moment.

“Yes,” she had said, “you must go at once and bring him back. Take him to his apartments. We will prepare the body there. I will await your return, and while I wait I shall pray—for Prince Gerin, yes, but no less for Quentin and for the rest of us. Now go, and may the Most High be with you.”

Esme had marveled at the dowager's quiet strength; her bearing calmed those around her, removing much of the sting of the bitter news. Esme recalled another dark day long ago now, the day Eskevar had fallen in battle. Days after the king's funeral, Esme had asked the queen how she had been able to remain so strong, comforting all around her, yet seeming never to require comfort herself.

“No, I am not strong,” Alinea had told her. They were sitting in the garden among the primroses. Durwin was there, too. He had been the queen's constant companion during those troubled days. “Though it is true I am no stranger to grief, one never becomes a friend to sorrow. But Durwin here has shown me the way of hope. This hope I carry within me makes the burden lighter, and I find I am able to help others who have not such hope.”

“Then tell me, my lady, for I would know. How can I obtain this hope of yours? Where is it to be found?” Esme had asked. She still remembered Alinea's words.

And she remembered Durwin's too. “The hope you seek is born of belief in the Most High, the One True God of all,” he had told her. “Seek him and you will find him. He is ever reaching out to those who truly desire to know him.”

“What must I do? Where is his temple?”

Durwin laughed. “He is not like other gods. He has no temple, and does not accept gifts of silver or gold, or sacrifices of helpless creatures.”

“No?” This she found most puzzling.

“No,” laughed Durwin again. “He wants
you
. All of you: your heart and spirit. He wants your love and worship, everything—he will not settle for less.”

“This is a demanding god you serve, hermit.”

“Yes, he is as you say—demanding. But the blessing he bestows on all who come near him is beyond all price. It is life he gives, and nothing less.”

Esme wondered at the words at the time. They sounded strange to her, and so unlike anything she had ever heard from any priest. She remembered how her heart had tugged within her as the hermit spoke.
Ah,
she thought,
but I was younger then. So young. Still, I wanted to believe what
Durwin said was true. Is wanting to believe the same as believing? Yet, the time passed,
and I thought no more about it, until now. Why now? Is it too late?

Esme came out of her reverie and found Bria's eyes upon her. “You are lost in thought,” said Bria. They had reached the edge of the forest and were staring across the plain. Askelon shone clearly in the light of the westering sun, throwing a great shadow toward them.

“I was thinking of another sad time,” replied Esme. “Of Eskevar's passing.”

“Often I have thought of that dark day. When Gerin was born, how I wished he was there to see his grandson. It would have made him proud, I know. Yes, and no less proud to see his granddaughters.” Her features twisted in anguish. “Oh, Esme! My son is taken from me! What am I going to do?”

“The king is searching for him, and Toli brings help. They will find him. They will bring him back safely.”

“He is so young. I am afraid they will . . .” She could not bring her-self to complete the thought.

“Do not think it! No one would dare harm the prince. No one. He will be safe.” Esme forced a smile. “You would not be a true mother if you did not worry after your son. But Quentin will find him.”

Bria nodded. After a time she said, “I am happy you are here, Esme. I will need a good friend in the days to come.”

“I am your friend always.”

They rode the rest of the way to the castle in silence, each wrapped in her own thoughts, but feeling the warmth of the other's presence.

Quentin blinked his eyes in amazement at the sword in his hand. One fell thrust and the fire of the white lanthanil blade had been quenched. The awful significance of what had happened struck him like a thunderbolt. And he heard once more the words spoken at the anointing of the sword:

Never in malice, never in hate, never in evil shall this blade be raised. But in righteousness
and justice forever shall it shine.

That was the promise of the Shining One, and he, in one flash of anger and hate, had broken that vow. And in breaking it, the hand of the Most High was removed from him. The magnitude of his crime overwhelmed him.

“No!” he cried. His own voice rang hollow in his ears, condemning him.