“Nay, Sire. I have come with news: the sword has been found. We go now to claim it.”
“Zhaligkeer found?”
“Lord Ameronis has stolen it from a tinker who found it in the road the day of Prince Gerin’s abduction.”
“Then he has won. He will never give it up.”
“Not without a fight, no. But we mean to give him a fight the likes of which he has never seen. In the end he will give the Shining One back, and gladly. That is why you must ride with us.”
“There is no time, Theido. No time. Already it is too late.”
“It is not too late, lord. But it will be if you delay.”
“Go, then, and see what can be done.”
Theido was about to agree, hesitated, and instead replied, “I will not give the order, Sire. That you must do. And you must ride at the head of your troops if we are to show Ameronis and his friends that we will brook no treason in this realm.”
Again Quentin lay silent. Theido could not tell if his words were finding their mark or if his listener was so far given to his despair that nothing could reach him. The knight said a silent prayer to the Most High to move the King once more to action. “Defend your throne, my lord,” Theido said. “Come. Ride with us. Lead us.”
Quentin sighed and passed a hand before his eyes. “No, I am no King. Leave me.”
“Who will lead the troops if you will not?”
“You lead them.”
“I will not.”
“Ronsard, then. Anyone. I do not care.”
Theido knew he was beaten then, turned away, and walked to the door. With his hand on the latch he paused and said, “There are those who will give their lives for you and your throne. And many more will brave any danger in service to you. Durwin did, and Toli-and others you know nothing of. Will you not lift a hand to save yourself?” With that he closed the door.
The King heard his footsteps diminishing in the corridor, and lay staring up into the darkness of his blackened room. He did not move.
“Well?” Ronsard asked, already guessing the answer, for it was written in the gray, weary lines of his friend’s face.
“He will not ride. I fear we have lost our King even before a single blow has been delivered.”
“If our King gives himself over to defeat, then our kingdom is in disarray. The jackals will tear it to pieces.”
Theido drew a deep breath. “That, at least, we can hold off for a little longer. We will ride to Ameron-on-Sipleth and do what we can.” He cast an eye skyward. “If we ride all night we can be there by morning.”
As twilight tinted the bowl of heaven the color of dark wine, the Dragon King’s army left Askelon. In all the times of leaving, in all the wars when Mensandor’s men-at-arms had answered the call and marched forth into battle, in all the frightful days when foe threatened and peace would be won only by lance and sword, there had never been a more silent departure.
The troops filed through the outer ward and gatehouse, over the immense drawbridge spanning the dry moat, and down the long ramp to wend through the streets of the city. The knights came first on horseback, their armor bundled beneath netting behind the saddles of their squires. The footmen were next, marching together in long ranks, not speaking-for word had spread through the file that the Dragon King had not the heart to lead his men. After the footmen came the heavy wagons loaded with provisions and weapons for the footmen and knights; smiths’ and surgeons’ wains with supplies’ and tools for mending broken men and their armaments formed the rear of the train.
The silent army passed through the streets of the city like a ghostly phalanx whispering off to some forgotten battle on the mists of time. No one came out to mark their passing; no citizen cheered their march. The streets remained empty of all but a few mongrel dogs, hungry-looking and scabby, who ran yapping at the horses’ hoofs.
At the head of the troops rode Ronsard and Theido side by side, upright in the saddle, eyes ahead. They did not speak, but wrapped themselves in their own thoughts like cloaks against the night. And though the night was warm, there was an atmosphere of melancholy and futility that chilled the air. All felt it who followed the banner of the Dragon King this night.
For, without the enemy so much as lifting blade against the throne, Mensandor had lost her King.
FORTY-ONE
ELDER JOLLEN sat stroking his beard in the firelight, staring into the glowing embers on the hearth; next to him sat his wife, Morwenna, and Alinea beside her. Bria and Esme, opposite the esteemed elder, watched him carefully, waiting for what he would say. Shadows flickered on the walls, and in one corner a cricket chirped its nightsong. Finally, his chest rising as he drew air deep into his lungs, he looked up and said, “Yes, I agree. You must go back at once. The dream, as Biorkis suggests, has been given as a warning for you to return-or a sign that you must be present to witness the event which is foretold and will take place soon. Either way you must go.”
“Thank you, Elder Jollen. Your words make my heart rest easier in its decision,” Bria answered.
“I could discuss this with the other elders if you like, but I have no doubt that they will say what I have already said. Yes, go. I know that you have hardly had time to rest from your journey and now must leave, but we will pray that the god will give you strength for your travels.”
“I hate the thought of leaving,” said Esme. “In so short a time I have come to feel very comfortable here-almost as if I belong here.”
Jollen looked at her, nodding to himself as if he could see something in that young woman that no one else could. “Perhaps the god is speaking to you, Esme. It may be that he has a place for you here among us. In any event, you will always be welcome in Dekra. Return when you may, and stay as long as you care to; allow your heart to find itself again.”
The elder’s last words surprised Esme. “Did Bria tell you about my… my troubles?”
Jollen’s smile was gentle. “No, my Lady. I did not need words to tell me that you have been a party to much pain and sadness of late. From the moment you came through the gate I saw much in you of the little child lost”
Esme lowered her eyes and stared at her hands in her lap. “It is so apparent, then?”
“No!” replied Bria.
“No, no-perhaps not to everyone,” admitted Elder Jollen. “But it is part of my gift that I see most clearly the shape of the inner soul. I do not speak to shame you, Esme. Only to tell you that we know of your hurts and have been praying for you since you entered here.”
“I thank you for your prayers. And I have felt more at peace here than at any time since…” Her voice faltered and she paused, letting her words trail off.
Morwenna rose and put an arm around her. “Come back when your work is done, and stay with us. It would be an honor to have you here.”
“My work?” Esme looked around at the group. “What do you mean by ‘my work’?”
“Of us all, Esme,” replied Alinea, “you are the one who had the vision; you are the one to whom the Most High has spoken.”
“I have some part to play in this?”
Elder Jollen chuckled lightly. “We all do, to be sure. But yours is a special part. Whist Orren has revealed to you alone something of his plan. The Most High has his hand on you, Esme.”
They talked a little more then, about commonplace things and the preparations that had been made for their departure early the next morning. But nothing more was said of Esme’s dream or its possible significance, though all knew that some word of power had been spoken among them and that it would result in some great deed as yet unforeseen, and that this was what sent the women hurrying off once more. When they rose reluctantly to go to their beds, Morwenna led them to the door, saying, “I will come to bring you breakfast and to see you away in the morning.”