The Warlords of Nin (53 page)

The funeral cortege, made up of knights and nobles on horseback and loyal subjects on foot, wound through the hastily cleared streets of Askelon. Townspeople stood among the ashes of their ruined city to pay a last farewell to their sovereign. Quentin rode on Blazer, next to Alinea and directly behind the funeral wain. Bria and Durwin followed and were in turn followed by Theido and Ronsard, who led the procession of noblemen. Others came on in turn, riding beneath their colorful devices and banners. At the head of the cortege, the Dragon King's own standard carried his red dragon hung with pennons of black.

The king rode to his tomb on his bier beneath a sky of radiant blue sown with tufts of white clouds. A cool wind freshened the summer air and bore sorrow far away, though here and there a tear still sparkled in an eye. The sun shone down upon the body of Eskevar fair and full, and the wind ruffled his hair as his armor glinted hard and bright in the sun.

Eskevar was placed in one of the beehive-shaped barrows within the Ring—the very barrow Quentin had found him in years before to rescue him from Nimrood's fell scheme. The barrow was clean and well ordered, having been swept and appointed by Oswald, the queen's chamberlain.

With much ceremony and dignity, Eskevar was laid to rest upon his stone slab, which had been spread with fur coverlets from his bed. His most highly prized possessions were placed about him, and when all had looked their last upon the king, the tomb was sealed and the entrance filled in with earth. Quentin assisted in this work rather than stand by and watch. And when it was over, he turned away and did not look back.

As the funeral party emerged from the green silence of the Ring of the Kings, they were met by a party of lords led by Wertwin. The noblemen bowed in their saddles and gazed down at Quentin, who still walked beside the queen, holding her arm. “We are told,” began Wertwin, “that you are to be the king's choice to succeed his throne.”

“I am,” Quentin said flatly. No one could determine from his tone how he felt about the matter.

Wertwin appeared disconcerted and glanced at the lords around him. “We mean to offer you our fealty,” he explained.

Quentin only stared at them. “He who wields the Shining One is our king!” said someone from among them. A chorus of hearty approval endorsed this statement. From somewhere nearby Toli appeared, bearing a sword in his arms. Quentin smiled at his friend and took the sword.

He felt the quick warmth of its grip as it touched his fingers, and he heard the blade whisper as he drew it forth. Then suddenly the forest glade was awash in a brilliant light as Quentin lofted the sword for all to see.

The assembled lords dismounted at once and came forward to gather around him and to kneel. Quentin held the sword high and said, “May the god whose power burns in this blade burn in me as well. I will accept your fealty.”

The forest rang with cheers and shouts of acclaim. Theido and Ronsard shouldered their way to his side and clapped him on the back, and then he was borne away on the shoulders of loyal subjects.

A jubilant parade returned to Askelon, in marked contrast to the one that had issued from the gates earlier in the day. Although the official period of mourning would continue for many more days, from that moment the healing process throughout the ravaged land was begun. In Eskevar all the dead were buried and the old order laid to rest. In Quentin the new order was present with a promise bright as the future that shone like the light of the Shining One at his side.

A new age had dawned, and a new king had been chosen to lead the way. And of all those who reveled in it and welcomed it, only Durwin, the faithful hermit of Pelgrin Forest, knew it for what it was: the priest king had come at last. The promise of the ages had been fulfilled.