The Warlords of Nin (28 page)

“And so you shall. There will be enough battle for all of us, I'll wager.” Theido came to stand beside a tearful Quentin.

“The injury that keeps me here was more hurtful than I knew,” Quentin told them, embracing them both in turn. “Go, then, and may the Most High go with you and grant you his unfailing protection.”

“And you,” the two knights said in unison.

They moved reluctantly toward the door. Toli, coming up behind Quentin, shook both their hands and wished them, in his native tongue, singing blades and shields that never fall. And turning to Durwin he said, “Good hermit, will you say a prayer to the Most High for our brothers?”

“Of course—I was about to suggest it myself.” The hermit of Pelgrin came forward and raised his hands before the two knights. Ronsard sank to one knee, and Theido knelt down beside him.

“God Most High, who ever guides our steps and hears our prayers,” he said softly, “hear us now. Be to these our stout companions the sharp edge of their blade, the strength of their arm, and the protection of their shield. Show them mighty among the enemy; show them dauntless and unafraid. Go before them into battle as a lance to drive the evil from our shores. Be to them a comfort and a guide; refresh them when they are weary, and bear them up when strength is gone.

“Banish fear from their hearts, and give them wisdom to lead their men to victory. Be to them the glory which will shine through the darkness, and bring them home to us once more.”

The knights rose slowly. “This god of yours, Durwin, can he do so much?” asked Ronsard softly.

“He can do all things, my friend. Do not fear to call upon him in any need. He is ever quick to aid his servants.”

“Then from now on I will serve him—this God Most High.” He grinned at Quentin. “See, you are not the only one who listens to this prattling hermit. I have a care for my spirit, too.”

“Truly, this is a time of wonders unceasing.” Quentin advanced and offered his hand to them. “Farewell, my friends.”

“Farewell, Quentin. Farewell.”

30

Q
uentin and Toli had been too preoccupied with their own preparations to think beyond what lay ahead. They had spent two days following the departure of the knights gathering supplies and making ready. Then early, before the sun had risen above the dark line of Pelgrin, Toli led the horses and pack animals out across the inner ward, through the inner curtain, and into the outer ward where Durwin and Quentin waited.

There they had been met by Alinea, Bria, and Esme. The women pressed gifts of food into their hands and exchanged kisses all around.

“Eskevar wished me to bid you farewell,” Alinea said. “He would have come to see you away, but a king does not say good-bye. So, for him and myself, farewell. Travel swiftly and return safely. Our hearts and our prayers go with you.”

Then Bria and Quentin had removed a little apart to speak the special feelings between them. Esme, with flowers in her hair, took one and gave it to Toli, who carried it over his heart beneath his baldric.

The three women had accompanied them across the drawbridge and stood there, tears splashing to the ground in a gentle rain, waving them good-bye until the narrow streets of Askelon had taken them from view.

The sadness of that parting settled heavy on Quentin's spirit. It brooded over his waking hours for the better part of three days following. He spoke but little and moved about as one asleep. He did not notice that Toli, and to some extent Durwin, behaved in exactly the same way.

In his lonely meditation, Quentin turned again and again to the events of the hurried last days in Askelon, and especially the meeting in Durwin's chambers that had lasted far into the night. It now seemed shadowy and indistinct, as if he were watching smoke trails curling and rising in the night air. But it seemed real enough then, and it was that particular event that was now speeding them on their way.

As they moved through the darkened pathways of Pelgrin Forest, now heavy with verdure, summer sitting full on every bough, Quentin rehearsed once more the happenings of that night.

After Theido and Ronsard left Durwin's apartment, almost before their footsteps had diminished in the corridor, Biorkis had swept in with an armful of scrolls and parchments and map skins. Since the private council with Eskevar the day before, he had disappeared; Quentin had not seen him since he heard the old priest recite the ancient prophecy that still rang in his ears.

Biorkis, they were soon to discover, had busily buried himself in the castle's athenaeum and there, stopping neither to eat nor sleep, scratched together the odd assemblage of material he now carried with him.

“I have found what we need, Durwin. It was not easy—the king's library is not at all as orderly as the temple's, but that is to be expected. Some of these writings are barely discernible—even
to a knowing eye—and quite incomplete. But my memory, and yours, of course, Durwin, will serve where the parchments fail us.”

The old priest bustled and fretted so prodigiously in getting his texts arranged that Quentin laughed out loud. “Do not tell me we are to endure one of your interminable lessons! Spare us!”

Biorkis cocked his head to one side. “Do not think that it would harm you, sir. You have probably forgotten all I ever taught you.”

“Biorkis and I put our heads together upon leaving the king's council,” Durwin explained. “I think you will be interested to hear what we have learned.” Although Durwin did not say it, Quentin knew by the glint of the hermit's eye and the mood of high excitement that suddenly bristled in the room that the subject of the meeting had something to do with the prophecy and his strange utterance of it the day previous.

“Yes, it is all here. Enough at any rate to allow us to act, I think, though I wish I had access to my books at the temple.” Biorkis sighed sadly.

“And I my own at the cottage,” agreed Durwin. “Still, I have read them enough to know them from memory, I daresay.”

“Are we to understand,” said Quentin, indicating Toli and himself, “that you believe this . . . Prophecy of the Priest King, or whatever—this has something to do with us?”

“Not us, Sire,” said Biorkis blithely. “You!”

Quentin had almost succeeded in putting off the feeling of awesome responsibility that went along with the thought that he might be chosen for some great task. He had almost settled into feeling his normal self again—almost, but not entirely. For the inexpressible notion that he was caught up in the swiftly running stream of history, that he was moved by an unseen hand toward an unknown destiny, and that all this had something to do with his vision of the flaming sword—this notion haunted him, lurking behind his thoughts like a shadow, or the lingering presence of a dream.

“There are many signs by which these things can be judged, as you well know,” the priest burbled on. “Let us just say that I have spent a day and a night in sifting through all that is known about the prophecy and the events surrounding it, and that I have no good reason to doubt that the signs point to you.”

“There are also very good reasons to believe that now is the time in which this prophecy will be fulfilled,” added Durwin.

Toli spoke up. “Though I have never heard of this prophecy—before it was spoken in the king's chamber, that is—the Jher, too, have a legend that a king of the white race will arise who will usher in the age of light. He is to be called Lotheneil, the Waymaker. That is because he will lead men's minds toward Whinoek, the God Most High.” Toli fixed Quentin with a knowing look and crossed his arms upon his chest, as if satisfied that the matter was settled.

“Do not think that I am unwilling,” said Quentin. “But you must show me how these things pertain to me. I know nothing of this prophecy—”

“And yet you quoted it word for word, or nearly. In the original it goes something like this:
‘Thee sword sceal byrnan with fyr flaume, Deorcin sceal
dhy; deffetyn hit fleon winge falcho.'

“I would have been quite astounded if you had spoken it in the old tongue. Still, it was surprising enough. There are fewer than five men in all of Mensandor who know and can quote that obscure prophecy. That two of them should be in the same room together at an utterance—well, it is quite remarkable. Incredible.”

“I did not tell the whole prophecy, only part of it.” Quentin fidgeted in his high-backed chair, while Toli perched like a bird of prey beside him. “It might have been a coincidence.”

“Quentin,” Durwin reproached softly, “you know as well as I that for the servants of the Most High, there are no coincidences. And for a prophet to quote the merest portion of a prophecy is the same as to invoke the whole. The elders at Dekra should have given ample instruction in that.”

It was true; he had often heard and understood the elders to make reference to various events and happenings in the sacred texts, quoting portions of the text and implying the rest. He knew Durwin could see through any attempt on his part to distance himself from the events that were forming on all sides. It seemed to Quentin that a web of circumstances was weaving itself around him, pulling tighter and tighter. Soon he would be trapped by a destiny he had not foreseen and was not certain he could fulfill.

But he also felt that aside from his personal reluctance, which sat like a lintel stone upon his back, if what Biorkis and Durwin said was true, he had a responsibility to follow wherever the trail would lead. If he did have some part to play in saving the realm, he had to accept it and do whatever was required, aside from how he felt about it.

It was this other, more rational Quentin who answered.

“Very well. Let us see what you two rumormongers have schemed up for us. There seems to be no denying you.”

“You are beginning to think beyond yourself, eh, Quentin? That is good. Yes, very good.” Biorkis pulled on his long, white, braided beard. “Now, here is what I have found.”

The hours that followed had seemed but the flicker of a candle flame. A wink, a nod, and they were gone. From the moment his old teacher had begun to speak, Quentin was gripped in the spell of enchantment, transfixed by the unutterable mystery of the story of strange events, long forgotten, having passed from the minds and hearts of men long ages past. It was remembered only by a few learned men, and now it was revived in his presence. He listened intently, seizing every word as a thirsty man opening his parched throat to the sky to drink in the drops of rain.

They told of the sword, a sword unlike any other and possessed of a mysterious holy power; of secret mines beneath hidden mountains in half-remembered lands; and of the forging of the mighty weapon upon an anvil of gold. Biorkis and Durwin, their round faces flushed with the excitement of their tale, spoke of the ache of the people who for generation upon generation had waited, believing that they would see the coming of the sword and he who would carry it. They told of songs sung and prayers prayed in all the dark, hopeless times for the hand worthy to possess the sword to arise and deal deliverance at its point.

Zhaligkeer—that was the name the ancients had given the sword. The Shining One.

Quentin rolled the name on his tongue, knowing the name linked him to those who had lived and died waiting to see the sword. He wondered how many men had breathed that name in their hour of need; he wondered how many had despaired of ever seeing it and had given up hope and turned away.

When at last the story was told, Quentin rose to stretch and pace the room in quick, restless strides. “Are you suggesting that we just go and find this sword? That it lies hidden in some cave in the high Fiskills?”

Biorkis shook his head wearily. “Not find it; the sword does not exist. You must make it. Zhaligkeer must be forged of the hand that will wield it.”

Quentin sighed hopelessly. “I do not understand. Forgive me, what was all that about anvils of gold and secret mines and all? I thought that it was all part of the legend.”

“Oh, it is, it is,” said Durwin. “But it is our belief that the legends indicate the manner in which the sword must be made, not how it was made. I do not think that anyone ever actually made the sword.”

“Well, why not? It does not seem at all clear why they would hesitate. What was to stop them from trying?”

Durwin cocked his head to one side and smiled smugly. “Nothing and . . . everything. Undoubtedly, many tried. They applied the prophecy to themselves and their own times. But two things are needed for the sword to become Zhaligkeer, the Shining One: the one is from the secret mines, but the other is the hand of him whom the prophecy names. Even if they found the ore, which perhaps some of them by some means accomplished, they still lacked the thing that would make the sword Zhaligkeer: the hand of the chosen one. You see, it is not the blade alone but the hand of the Most High which endows
the sword with its power.”

“If, as you say, men have long sought the Shining One, why have I not heard tell of it before now?”

“There is nothing unusual there, sir!” laughed Biorkis. “It is ever thus. In good days men think not of the hand that helps them. But when evil days come upon them, they cry out for the deliverer. In Mensandor, the years have brought prosperity and peace to the people as often as not. Men have forgotten much of the old times, when their fathers struggled in the land. They have forgotten the sword; but for a few the prophecy would have been lost completely.”

Quentin brushed his good hand through his hair. His eyes burned in his head. He was tired. The night was old, and he needed sleep.

“I know nothing of making swords. Neither do I know the way to the secret mines in the high wastelands of the Fiskills. And even if I already possessed such a sword, I do not know what I should do with it; I do not even have the arm to raise it.”

Durwin crossed the room and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “You are tired; you should take your rest like Toli there.” Durwin nodded toward the Jher, who had curled himself up in an empty seat and was now sleeping soundly. “Go to bed now. We have talked enough for one night. We will talk again tomorrow. Believe me, there is much more to discuss before we set off.”