The Sword and the Flame (28 page)

How was it still standing? How had it been saved? Most likely it had merely been overlooked in the fever of destruction.

Quentin leaned against the column, pushing his full weight into it, straining against it until the column groaned, tilted, and toppled into the pile. The stones broke apart and rolled with a dull thudding to their rest.

It is done,
thought Quentin.
The ruin is complete.
With that he turned away and walked to the place where he had left his horse and climbed at once into the saddle without looking back. As he galloped down the hill, it started to rain—a slow, miserable rain, as if the gods ridiculed him by pouring false sympathy over the wreck of his once-glorious vision.

As the slanting bank of sunlight began its crawl across the floor of their cell, Toli got up and began pacing. Prince Gerin still slept peacefully, as if he were in his own safe bed in his father's castle. Toli watched the boy and smiled, thinking how wonderful to be a child and to have only a child's limited tolerance for trouble. Was it that their tolerance was so limited, or that their endurance was greater? he wondered. Either way children simply would not allow trouble to dominate them for any length of time. They shrugged it off like an unwanted cloak on a hot summer's day. When was it that they learned to wear that stifling cloak?

Upon waking, a plan had occurred to Toli. He thought about it now, thrashing it out in his head, examining it from every possible angle until he was certain about it. When at last he had settled himself with it, he went to the heavy oaken door of their cell and pounded the flat of his hand against it. He waited and pounded again.

In a moment he heard someone hastening to the cell. “What is it? Be quiet,” said the voice on the other side.

“I demand to see the high priest!”

“No! Be quiet—I have my orders.”

“I demand to see the high priest! As a prisoner within his walls, it is my right!” Toli began pounding on the door once more.

“Be quiet, do you hear? You will get us both into trouble. Shut up!” The man's tone was frightened.

“I demand to see—,” Toli began, but stopped when he heard the bolt sliding away.

The door creaked on its iron hinges and opened a crack, into which a temple guard thrust his head. His sleep-swollen face glared angrily at the captive. “Shut up! Do you want to wake the whole temple and get me into trouble?”

With the quickness of a cat, Toli sprang forth and shut the door, pinching the guard's head between the door and the jamb post. “Ach!” said the guard as the door squeezed his neck.

“Now you shut up and listen!” instructed Toli firmly. “If you value your worthless head, you will do as I say. I want to see the high priest at once. Arrange it. Do you hear me?”

“Ugh . . . what if I refuse?” the man gasped.

Toli pressed the door more tightly against his neck; he heard the guard's hands scrabbling for a hold on the other side. “Then,” he answered, “I will be waiting for you when you come with the food next time. And the next time I will crush your throat with this door.”

“Gack!” the man croaked. “Let me go—I will do it!”

“Good. You had better, or next time . . .” He let the threat trail off.

The guard made a face, and Toli slowly eased the pressure, backing away from the door. The man wasted no time in pulling his head free, slamming the door, and ramming the bolt home.

Toli heard the man's bare feet slapping the stone as he hurried away, and felt he had won his way. Yes, the guard was a coward and would do what he was told. Of that he was certain. But the high priest? He would not be so easily persuaded. The man was as oily as the sacred stone the priests so diligently anointed. He would have to be dealt with in a different way entirely: not with threats but with promises. And Toli knew what he would promise.

33

I
t is just as we feared,” said Theido. “They have come in force.”

“How many?” asked Ronsard. His cheek was purplish black from a bruise below his left eye. He held himself stiffly, for his muscles ached.

“Six. And they have ridden all night, by the look of them.” The tall knight spoke softly, though the door to the council chamber was closed and the guests within could not hear.

“They did not waste any time,” sneered Ronsard. “They are carrion birds, Theido—vultures come to feed on the flesh of suffering.” He shot an angry look through the stone wall to those who had just arrived and were waiting aside. “What are we going to do? The king cannot attend them; that is out of the question in his present condition.”

“Perhaps,” replied Theido thoughtfully.

“You cannot be serious! Are you thinking of allowing the king to face them?”

“It might do him good. A round with those jackals might shock him out of his despair.”

“It might crush what little is left of his spirit, too.”

Theido nodded gravely. “You could be right. But I do not know what else to do. We cannot keep them waiting in there forever. They will see the king sooner or later; we cannot prevent it. I am afraid Quentin has no choice but to face them.”

“He might succumb . . .”

“Not to them.” Theido jerked his head toward the council chamber door. “Not like this. But they have the power to convene a Council of Regents. If they sway but five more to their cause, it could be done.”

Ronsard nodded gravely. “Has such a thing ever been accomplished?”

“Not in recent memory—but yes. Once or twice. They would declare the king incompetent—”

“As of now that would not be difficult.”

“And they would have to join forces behind one of their own number. That might prove more difficult—getting them all to agree on who the new king should be. There are many proud lords who believe them-selves the only reasonable choice.”

“We have an ally in vanity—thank the Most High for that!”

Theido nodded and ran his hand through his hair with the air of a man who does not welcome taking the next necessary, and possibly fatal, step across a treacherous bridge.

“Go on,” nudged Ronsard. “It must be done. I will wait here and keep an eye on them until you return.”

“And pray, Ronsard. Pray the king has enough wits about him to fend off this attack.”

Pym walked along more quickly for the lack of his usual baggage, but he missed the bang and clang of his pots and tools—his own musical accompaniment wherever he went. He wiped the damp from his face. At least the rain had stopped, and the sky showed signs of clearing before long; it was already shining blue away to the east.

“Ah, Tip, d'ye see?” said the tinker. “We'uns'll have the sun soon enough. Yes, sir. Won't have to walk in the rain no more, eh?”

The black dog raised her head to her master and barked once to show that she was glad to be traveling again.

“Yes, fearful it were, Tip. Fearful, I tell ye. You should'a seen the king—should'a seen him. All dark and broken was he, more monster than man to look at him. Nivver seen a body looked like that! No, sir. Never have, Tip. Him locked away in his own chambers a pris'ner. That's what he were—a pris'ner.”

Pym's eyes grew round as he remembered his audience with the Dragon King. “What could make a man like that, Tip? I ask ye, what could make him like that? I'll tell ye—that sword! Yes. The loss of it drives him mad. I know it, yes, I do. Don't I, Tip? Yes, sir.

“He's lost his son and now his sword, and it drives him mad as a weasel-bit dog. Yes, it does. We'uns've got to bring the king his sword, Tip. The sword we found, it must be his—or, if not, mayhaps 'twill do fer another. We must bring it to him, Tip.”

The tinker and his dog had left the Gray Goose after one of Emm's delicious breakfasts, and struck off along the southern road to Pelgrin and the place Pym had hidden the sword he found in the road.

“The king needs a sword, Tip. We'uns'll give him a sword, won't we? Yes, sir,” he said as they strolled along. He had heard that talk in the inn and around the town—about the king losing his sword—and had become convinced that the blade he had found in the road belonged to the Dragon King. Pym had known it to be a valuable weapon from the moment he had seen it glimmering in the dust of the road. Now he meant to retrieve the sword from its hiding place and carry it back to the king; that was the message he had meant to deliver to His Highness.

“But the king were in a state, Tip. He was. Couldn't talk to him—raving mad, he was. Then Master Oswald come and told us there were trouble and I left. I got right out of there, Tip. 'Twere no place for a tinker. No, sir. Glad to go I was.

“And trouble, all right—hoo! They teared down the King's Temple last night, Tip. Tumbled the walls to the ground, they did. That's why we have to bring back the sword, Tip. The king needs it now, he does. He needs it now.”

Pym, in his simple way, blamed all the sorry events taking place in the kingdom upon the loss of the king's sword. He reasoned that if he returned it, all would be made right again somehow. In this belief, he was no different from the rest of the common folk of Mensandor, who held that the king's power lay in the Shining One and that possession of the flaming sword gave him the right to rule.

The fact that Eskevar himself had chosen Quentin as his heir and successor had long ceased to have any significance in the popular imagination. It was Zhaligkeer, the enchanted sword, that made Quentin king. Without the sword . . . well, who was to say what might happen?

Toli waited with his back to the door of the cell, watching the oblong patch of sunlight as it advanced across the floor. It was starting its climb up the far wall before he heard the footsteps of the guard returning. Prince Gerin sat dejectedly in the corner of the cell they used for their bed, his chin resting in his hands, shoulders rising and falling with every breath. “I will return shortly,” said Toli. “Perhaps with freedom.”

The bolt scraped and the hinge creaked, and the guard shoved his foot into the crack. “Stay back,” the guard warned. Toli stepped away from the door. “That is better. He will see you now. Follow me—and if you try any tricks, I have orders to stop you by any means. Hear me?” The temple guard rubbed his sore neck; there was a red welt where the door had squeezed it earlier.

“I hear you,” replied Toli. “Take me to the high priest now.”

The guard jerked his head for Toli to march ahead of him, waited behind to bolt the door once more when the Jher was out of the cell, and then led him off to Pluell's chamber. Another guard had been sent to accompany them in case Toli entertained any notions of escape.

Through corridors cool and dank as a dungeon—for sunlight had not shown inside the temple in a thousand years—the guards pushed Toli, until at last they came to stand before a wide, arching door. The guard rapped once upon the door frame with an iron ring that was attached to a sconce. “Enter,” said a voice from within.

The guard opened the door and pushed Toli ahead of him into the chamber. Pluell waited for them, sitting in a high-backed chair, dressed in a priest's robe of fine velvet with his hands folded meekly in his lap. “You wish to see me?” he asked. He might have been addressing one of his priests who had come seeking guidance in a matter of conscience.