At Dekra he had seen the difference for the first time, had seen the sharp contrast between the hollow sham of the old religion and the true faith. Ah, Dekra… with her good, caring people and her quiet ways. Was he never destined to return and live out his days in peace, surrounded by love and beauty? Sadly no. His course had been chosen for him, and it did not include Dekra; Quentin knew that now.
But somehow it was enough merely to know that such a place existed on the earth, and that he could go there on occasion to revive his spirit. Yes, that was enough; he could accept it. For he would always carry a part of Dekra with him wherever he was.
If the god chose to move in him or if he did not, so be it. He could not rule the Most High-what kind of god would allow himself to be so ruled? But Quentin could believe. That he could do, and even the Most High could not prevent it. He could believe and hope though it cost him his crown, though it cost his life!
In that moment the choice became clear. Quentin no longer cared what the god could do for him. He would believe though it proved to be his downfall; he would continue to trust though the god himself prove untrustworthy. Yeseph had believed, and he had died believing. Durwin had believed and he, too, carried his faith to the grave. Very well; Quentin would do no less than the men he had loved, and who had shown him how to believe. He would believe and would follow with all the strength left in him.
That settled, Quentin turned his eyes once more toward the High Temple. Though he could not see it in the distance, he knew that it was there, perched on its plateau like a carrion bird awaiting its next feast of dead meat. Yes, his son waited within those walls, waited for him to come. He would go to him. Could he call himself “father” if he did not? If it meant giving up the sword, he would go. What kind of King would he be if he allowed his only son, heir to the throne, to be killed while he had strength and will to prevent it?
The two large rafts, made of logs lashed together with rope, slid into the night-dark water of the Sipleth while a dozen soldiers clambered aboard each, taking with them weapons and tools for breaking through the iron portcullis and gate guarding the secret rear entrance to Ameron Castle.
Once each raft was loaded and the passengers settled in the center, the polemen shoved the ungainly vessels out into the river’s sluggish current. Traveling against the flow would not be easy, but along the bank the water’s pull was not strong, and the polemen were able to work their rude crafts slowly up the river.
Theido sat with his men in the center of the foremost raft as they laboriously made their way upstream to the place below the walls where the bank offered them a footing so they could disembark and make for the cave entrance.
Throughout the day the carpenters had slaved over the building of the rafts, and though they were far from elegant, Theido was relieved to discover that the crude, blockish platforms floated well enough. By nightfall they were ready and he ordered them launched in order to take advantage of night’s protection to further veil their activities. He had no doubt that if even the smallest sound aroused the night watch posted on the wall, they would be discovered and their plans ruined. If Ameronis as much as suspected that they had discovered his secret tunnel, defending it would not be a problem: a trio of archers could keep any number of knights pinned down.
Now Theido crouched with his knights and listened to the water sloshing and splashing by them as they slid along the brush-covered banks, hoping against all hope that they would not be heard or seen passing beneath the walls. The polemen worked the poles and drove the rafts forward, keeping as close to the shoreline as possible. After what seemed like hours, they came to the place where the castle rock rose up and the river pushed its way around it, carving into the cliff of stone. Moving cautiously and with agonizing slowness-for the towers rose unseen directly above them-the rafts inched forward. Straining into the night, Theido scanned the cliff face for the sign he sought-the juniper bushes concealing the cave.
As they rounded the bend of the rock, Sir Garth, who had been with him the night before when they discovered the tunnel, and had himself been inside it, raised an arm silently and pointed to a spot along the bank halfway up the cliff. There it was; Theido could just make out the place as a dark spot against the lighter stone of the cuff. He nodded silently. Yes, they were almost there.
The first raft nosed into the stony shingle, grating softly as it came to rest. The nearest men scrambled ashore and begun unloading the weapons and equipment, and then the others followed. The second raft pushed up behind the first, and those aboard made to disembark, but an overanxious departure by the first soldiers dangerously unbalanced the craft and the raft tipped, throwing the remaining passengers into the river with a tremendous splash.
Those on shore froze, hearts pounding, while their comrades swam to shore and dragged themselves out as quietly as possible. Each man held his breath and prayed that the sound would go unnoticed.
They waited.
From somewhere high up on the wall above them they heard a shout which was answered by another shout. The words were not distinguishable, but Theido guessed that one watchman had called to another to ask about the commotion. Then there came the sound of voices drifting down from above-someone was leaning over the battlements to see what had caused the splash.
Theido raised his hand to indicate that everyone remain as still as stone. For a dozen heartbeats he relived his adventure of the night before when he had nearly been discovered. Then there came a call; those below heard it plainly. “All clear,” the voice said. The men huddled below breathed a sigh of relief.
Theido signaled for the men to resume their work, and the rafts, unloaded now, were poled up river a little way and hidden among the brush of the bank where the shore flattened and the forest grew close to the water. The rest of the soldiers formed a human chain and began passing the equipment from hand to hand up the side of the cliff and into the mouth of the cave.
Sir Garth and Theido climbed to the cave and crawled inside. Garth produced a flint and steel and found one of the torches among the supplies being stacked at the entrance. In a moment he had the torch flaming brightly and said, “Now we will see what we are up against.”
Holding the torch high, he led Theido deeper into the cave. They passed along narrow walls-no wider than a gallery corridor-and came to the furthermost wall of the cave. Here an entrance had been opened and a tunnel cut into the soft rock. “Ages past, the river hollowed this cave. When the castle was built here, someone discovered it and connected it with this passage,” said Garth, pointing to the smooth-chiseled surface of the stone.
He lowered his head and stepped into the tunnel. Theido followed. It was narrow-narrower than the cave, with room enough for only one man to pass comfortably. The secret passage led upward and in a slight incline as it made for the castle above. The floor was dry and dusty for the most part, but as it neared the gate Theido noticed water seeping down the sides of the walls. Garth indicated this with his torch, saying, “We are passing beneath the castle cistern, no doubt.”
Presently they came to a place where the tunnel walls widened a span and there just ahead stood the iron portcullis, glimmering darkly in the torchlight.
“There it is,” said Garth, placing the torch in a sconce set into the stone at the edge of the gateway. “And now that I see it in the light, I see that it is much sturdier than I had first imagined.” He ran his hand over the iron, feeling its thickness and strength.