He heard voices in the anteroom and then quick steps. His door was flung open and in came Theido, with Ronsard close on his heels.
“My lord, we would speak with you,” said Theido tersely.
“We did not think it right that you closet yourself thus, receiving no one,” added Ronsard.
“It seems you give me no choice,” said Quentin. He did not so much as turn his eyes toward them, but continued staring into the ashes as if they were the ashes of his own life, now dead and spent.
“This is not like you, Quentin,” said Theido, deliberately using his name.
This brought nothing but a mirthless smile to the King’s lips.
“See? The truth: I am no King and never was. I only played at being King, and my friends humored me as they would a child.” He laughed, an aching, hollow sound. Then he turned his face toward them and asked, “Where is my son?”
One look at his fearful countenance and both men inwardly gasped-so great was the change that had occurred since they had seen their friend last. Gone was the youthful man full of vigor and quick strength, keen-eyed and alert, always sharp as the point of a lance, and eagerly winging through life with the reckless vitality of an eagle soaring above the clouds for the sheer joy of soaring.
This man before them appeared as one who had lived in darkness for years, bereft of hope and brittle with despair. One wrong word and he might collapse upon himself in tears or fly into a foaming rage.
“The men are combing the hills and villages beyond Pelgrin. We will find him, Sire.” Theido was the first to recover his voice. He tried to sound matter-of-fact, though the sight of his distraught King disturbed him greatly.
“We would have come sooner…” began Ronsard. His voice failed him, and he turned away.
“Go away,” said the King.
“My lord, we would speak to you as friends.” Theido took a step toward him. “Please, I ask as a friend, hear us.”
“Friends,” Quentin mumbled. The word was a curse upon his lips. He passed a hand over his eyes and then asked again, “Where is my son?”
“He will be found. Trust in it; he will be found.”
The Dragon King shot an angry look at the two knights. “Trust in it! He says to trust that my son will be found!” His voice rose higher as rage leapt up in him like a flame. “Trust, eh? Trust what? Trust you? Trust the Most High? Ha! There is nothing that a man can trust. Everything deserts him in the end. Youth fades. Love grows cold. The works of his hands disintegrate-or are torn apart by his enemies!”
The King lurched up out of his chair and took up the long iron poker from the hearth as he began to pace back and forth. “The gods, my friends, the gods! Sooner trust in the weather; it is less fickle than they. The gods taunt a man, build him up so that they may laugh at him when they dash him with the wheels of misfortune. Great sport! See how he writhes and tears at his flesh! See how his heart turns upon itself; see how his pain devours him!”
Theido and Ronsard could only stare at this tirade.
“The Most High!” continued the King. “Do not speak to me of the Most High. He is more subtle and more wicked than all the rest! He tortures his victims with dreams and visions of glory. He prophesies and promises. He delivers their enemies into their hands and raises them up far beyond their rightful place.
“And then he takes it all away! Takes the man’s very heart out of him, strips him of all he holds dear in life and casts him bleeding into darkness! That is the Most High, God of gods! And fool is he who trusts in him!”
With that Quentin threw the poker. It smashed into the table, knocking over a tray of food which had been sitting there cold and untouched. Silver utensils scattered and clattered to the floor.
Quentin staggered, holding his head, and fell back into his chair exhausted.
A stunned silence hung like a pall over the room. Ronsard touched Theido on the arm, nodded toward the door, and the two left quietly, closing the door behind them.
TWENTY-SEVEN
“NEVER HAVE I seen him so.” Ronsard gestured with his hand toward the chamber they had just left. He spoke in an astonished whisper. “He is not himself.”
“The weight of his dreams has fallen upon him, and he is being crushed beneath it.” Theido shook his head sadly.
“Dreams are one thing, but he raves as one gone mad!”
“If he feels the depths of his sorrow more deeply than other men, it is because he has trusted the Most High more than most.”
“If he falls the farther, it is because he flew the higher, eh? Would that Durwin were here. He would know what to do.” Ronsard sighed heavily. “I miss that old hermit.”
“Aye, and so do I. But we must do the best we can. The kingdom depends upon it, I think.”
“What shall we do?” Ronsard shrugged helplessly. “Until the Prince is recovered, there is nothing to be done.”
“No,” said Theido slowly, “I perceive there is more to his torture than the Prince’s disappearance.”
“Or Durwin’s death?”
“Or Durwin’s death. Though both of those weigh heavy on him now, I believe he could rise above them if not for his loss of faith in the Most High.”
“What can we do about that?”
“Find the sword.” Theido looked steadily at his friend. “Find the sword and return it to him before someone else takes it for himself.”
“I am all for it, sir. Only tell me how to do it, and it will be done.”
“I would tell you if I knew, count on it. I only know that we must recover the sword-and soon.” Theido put his chin in his hand and stood for a few moments in deep thought. Ronsard watched him and waited.
He said at last, “Ronsard, you must go alone and begin the search.”
“And you?”
“I will stay here, close to the King. He may need a stout companion nearby.”
“As you say, Theido. But where shall I start?”
“That is the puzzle. But I think I have a plan that will be useful to us. Are you game to try?”
“I will do anything.”
“Good; then come with me. There is no time to lose.”
The first thing he felt as consciousness returned was something cool running down the side of his neck. Blood? He raised a hand and felt the side of his head where the trickle started.
The movement brought a throb of pain to his aching head. He moaned.
“Toli? Are you alive?”
The voice was hushed, but nearby. He opened his eyes carefully, then squeezed them shut again quickly, the light sending blazing fireballs through his brain.
“Ahhh!”
“Just lie back. Do not move,” the voice urged. Toli tried to place it.
In a moment the throb in his head eased somewhat and he opened his eyes, shielding them with his hand. The bare stone room was dim. The light slanted down in a single brilliant band from a narrow window high up in the wall. He lay on a straw pallet on the floor opposite the window.
He turned his head to the side; his vision wavered, but he made out the form crouching beside him on folded knees.
“Prince Gerin! Oww! What did they do to my head?”
“They dumped you in here. I was afraid you were dead.”
“When was that?” Toli pushed himself up slowly on his elbows. Each small movement brought a new stab of pain through his head.
“Do you not remember?” asked the Prince. He offered again a bit of cloth soaked with water that he had applied to Toli’s head.
Toli took it and placed it against his forehead. “I remember nothing,” he said. “No-I remember coming to the temple and asking to see the High Priest. I saw him, I think-talked with him. The next thing I know I am waking up here.”
“The High Priest?”
“Yes.”
“Is that where we are? The temple?”
“It must be,” replied Toli. He looked around the cell and at the door, which was not the door of a castle dungeon, though it was heavy oak and strong enough to keep a prisoner from breaking free. “Did you not know where you were taken?”