A long, clear blast of the trumpet summoned the riders, who began filing onto the field, arranging themselves in ranks before the king’s pavilion. When all were ready, the king nodded to a man with a wide leather baldric from which dangled a hunting horn.
The man was the marshal of the hunt; he led his bay horse to the front of the assembled ranks and in a loud voice began reciting the rules of conduct. When he was finished, Quentin looked over the crowd and shouted, “Do you one and all pledge your oath to abide by the laws of the King’s Hunt?”
“We so pledge!” the riders shouted as one.
“Well said!” cried Quentin. “Let the hunt begin!”
A great hurrah went up from the hunters, and all the spectators gathered around the field. The marshal raised the horn to his lips, but before he could sound the note, someone called out, “We would have our king lead us!”
“The king!” someone else shouted. “Yes! The king!” the rest joined in. “We want King Quentin. The king must lead the hunt!”
Quentin smiled and glanced at his queen. “Oh, you must go, Father! You must!” cried Princess Brianna and Princess Elena.
“Yes,” agreed Bria. “Lead them, my lord.”
“Very well,” said Quentin. “I will ride!” He made to leave the pavilion and mount Blazer. Another hurrah went up from the throng.
“The king will ride!” they shouted. Actually Quentin rode every year, but it was always the custom that the contestants ask him to ride and offer him the lead. Usually he rode only for a short while and then returned to officiate over the other games.
“Are you coming, Durwin?” Quentin asked as he descended from the pavilion.
“I am getting too old for breaking my neck on horseback. Leave it to the younger men. I shall wait here for your return.”
“Durwin!” the crowd called. “Let Durwin ride with us! Durwin! Durwin!” The call became a chant.
“You see, they want you, Durwin. You would disappoint them?”
“Very well, I will ride. Lead on.” He followed Quentin down to the field.
As they were mounted and making ready to gallop off, Quentin looked to his side and saw his son beaming at him, his young face shining with anticipation. “What is this?”
“I am riding, too, Father. That is your surprise!”
Before Quentin could speak, Toli, sitting next to the prince, said, “We have been practicing for weeks, my lord. Your son has become a fine horseman.”
“Is it true?” He stared at his son.
The boy burst out laughing. “If you could see the bruises I have endured, you would know the truth of it!”
Quentin did not know what to say. He glanced to Bria, who was attending the scene from her seat with a worried look on her face. Quentin scratched his jaw and seemed about to overrule the enterprise. He looked to Toli. “Do you think it wise?” Prince Gerin bit his lip.
“Sire, I would not allow it if I thought he would be in danger. He can handle himself and his mount, never fear. And I will ride with him just to make sure. I will not allow him away from me for an instant.”
Quentin nodded, his eyes on the boy. The intense hope the youngster carried within him burned out of his eyes like a flame. How could he be denied?
“As you will,” said Quentin, breaking into a grin when he saw how much his approval meant to the lad. “You shall ride. And I hope you find the biggest trophy!”
“For you, Father. I want to find one for you!”
“Toli, watch after him. And you, young sir, do as Toli tells you.”
They made their way among the other riders to the end of the field—the king in the lead with Durwin on one side and Prince Gerin and Toli on the other. When they were in position, the king raised his hand and the marshal of the hunt blew his horn. “To the hunt!” they cried, and all at once the horses leaped away, thundering off across the plain toward Pelgrin Forest.
The thump of the horses’ hooves on the plain pounded out a drumbeat, and the people cheered as the hunters flew away into the for-est. Once they reached the foremost fringes of the wood, Quentin hung back and let the others go ahead. Those after game dashed ahead first, lances at the ready, searching out trails among the dark branches. Hot behind them came the trophy seekers, who spread out to ride alone to secret places where they hoped a prize would be found.
“What are you waiting for?” shouted Quentin to his son, who also hesitated at the edge of the wood. “Away! Fly!”
The youngster snapped the reins, and Tarky dashed away; Toli was right behind him. “He is growing up, Sire,” said Durwin at Quentin’s shoulder.
“Too fast, I sometimes think.” He smiled after his son. “Look at him go!”
“He reminds me of another young man I met—could it be that long ago? Although he rode a chestnut stallion, as I remember.”
“But he did not ride that well—as I remember.”
“So it is! But he had the will to try, and a stout heart in his young frame.”
“Stubborn, you mean,” laughed Quentin. “How we have changed, old friend.”
“Yes, changed a little. But still very much the same.” The hermit snapped his reins. “Come along. Let us see how the young master fares. Keep up, if you can!” With that he darted off.
“Is that any way to speak to your king, you grizzled old hermit?” Quentin shouted after him. He spurred Blazer and sped into the cool, green wood.
8
It is such a lovely day, my lady. Do you not wish to join the others at the festival?” Chloe came quietly up behind Esme as she gazed unseeing out upon the plain, ablossom with scores of colored tents. “See, the hunt has already begun.”
They watched the lines of horses and riders galloping in a long, sinuous wave over the Plain of Askelon. After a moment Esme replied absently, “You may go, Chloe, if you like. I think I will remain.”
“Oh, do come, my lady. You would enjoy it. You would, I know.”
“Ah,” Esme sighed, “to please you. Very well, I will go.”
As the day was gentle, they decided to walk, making their way through empty streets to the festival field. Chloe kept up a running banter all the way, talking of this or that small thing she had noticed in the Dragon King’s household, comparing it to what she knew of other royal houses.
Esme listened with half an ear, letting her maid chirp on like a sparrow, happy not to have to think at all, but just listen. Her dark mood of the night before had returned with the morning. And though she tried to master it, she found it engulfed her more securely than she guessed. For try as she might, she could not banish it from her.
So, with no hope of ridding herself of it, and lacking the immediate strength to fight it, she merely gave herself over to the despair she felt and let it tug her along where it would.
What am I to do? she thought. What am I to do?
She had, with the death of her husband, inherited vast holdings of lands. Several small villages were under her protection, as well as a castle and a summer estate, each with a full complement of stewards, overseers, and servants. Her treasury was one of the largest in Elsendor. But all this she would have given up gladly, if only it would have offered her a glim-mer of hope for happiness.
“Do not frown so, my lady,” said Chloe.
“What?” Esme pulled herself out of her gloomy thoughts.
“Promise me you will try to enjoy the occasion.”
Esme smiled. “I shall try. I know it is not seemly for a lady to scowl like a haggard.” She sighed again. “Oh, Chloe, what am I going to do?”
Once at the festival site, they made their way among the yellow-and- white-striped pavilions, now being jostled by the roaming populace. They walked toward the king’s pavilion, pausing to watch acrobats and jugglers, or to sample the treats of the vendors.
“Lady Esme! Lady Esme!” she heard a voice call out, and turned to see the two little princesses running to her. “We are so glad you came! Oh!” said Brianna breathlessly. “There is so much
to see!”
“So much to see!” said Elena. “Come with us!”
“Do you want to watch us in a game?” asked Brianna.
“Oh, please,” cried Elena, “you must!”
“I would love to,” said Esme.
The girls were off again, quick as grasshoppers, darting toward a large ring of people gathered around a game of skittles.
“I am glad you changed your mind, Esme.” Bria fell into step beside her.
Esme dropped her gaze to her feet. “It was Chloe’s idea,” she said slowly. Bria heard the undertone of despair in her voice. “I must have gabbled like a fishwife last night.”
“What is a little gabbling between friends? I welcome your confidence. If you care to talk, I will listen.”
Esme did not speak again for a moment. The two women walked together in silence. “It is strange, is it not?” she said finally.
“What is?”
“Life.” Esme glanced at her friend and then turned away again quickly. “Only yesterday we had so much before us—so many bright hopes for the future, so many dreams, so much joy. Those were good days—”
“And will be again.”
“For others perhaps, but not for me. It seems my fate was cast from the beginning. I was never—”
“All were born for happiness, Esme. But you have seen much of pain and trouble, and it will take time to heal those inner wounds. You must not expect them to disappear in an evening.”
“I thought by coming here it would be different. But I have brought my trouble with me.”
“Then we shall do whatever can be done to free you—and you must also help.”
“I will try, Bria. I will try for your sake.”
“Not for me, dear friend. For yourself.”
The hunt moved through the thick-grown trails of Pelgrin Forest, and the wood rang with the voices of the hunters and the sounding of horns whenever beast was caught or trophy won. In a clearing, through which coursed a shining stream, Quentin and Durwin stopped to allow their horses to drink.
“Tired so soon?” asked Durwin. Other riders entered the meadows, also paused at the water, and then went on.
“I should return to the festival. My presence there will be required to judge the games.” He listened to the crash of horses and riders through the undergrowth, and felt the warm sun on his face. “It is a good hunt, eh?”
“So it is! I do not remember one better. But you go on; I will remain a little. I would like to see the young prince ride. It is a joy to watch him. I shall try to find them.”
Quentin turned Blazer and started back across the meadow; he waved to Durwin and galloped away.
Durwin struck off for the far side of the clearing, where a trail entered the wood. He knew the forest well, and had a hunch where he might find Toli and Gerin, for he had seen them pushing a southerly course just before he and the king had entered the meadow.
How long has it been since I have lived in the forest? he wondered. Ah, too long! I have forgotten how peaceful it is, and how fragrant and beautiful. Perhaps I should leave the castle and come back to my old home. But I am content to be where the king wants me.
These and other thoughts occupied his mind as he rode along the leaf-laden byways of the forest. The green shadows were cool; yellow sunlight struck through open patches in the leafy canopy, dappling the path with dancing light. Durwin savored the solitude of the wood and felt his heart soar like a hawk on an upward draft.
Just then the air shivered with a startled cry—a sudden, sharp yelp. It hung for a moment and then was cut off. The forest deadened the sound, muffling it so that Durwin could not discern the source. But it seemed to come from somewhere very close at hand.
He spurred his steed forward, heedless of the branches reaching out for him. There was another shout, closer this time.
Durwin threw the reins to the side, and the horse careered through the undergrowth. Nettles tore at his legs. He ducked branches and urged the horse to greater speed. He caught a fleeting glimpse of a horse rearing and dark shapes like shadows darting through the wood.
The next instant he was through the trees and pounding into a wider place in the trail. There before him he saw Toli and Prince Gerin on horseback, with three men in dark clothing around them. The men had short swords and were circling the riders, trying to get at them. Only Riv’s flashing hooves kept these assailants at bay.
Without thinking, Durwin loosed a shout and dashed forward. The men heard the whoop and turned to see a new threat bearing down on them. The circle broke as one of the foe turned to meet the hermit.
Before the man could raise his sword, Toli whirled Riv, and the warhorse’s shoulder knocked him to the ground. He yelled as he went down; his two companions bolted and ran, melding back into the forest.
The man on the ground looked up, fear twisting his begrimed features. He was bleeding from a cut lip. He spat once and then lunged between the horses, gaining his feet as he made for the trail’s edge. He dived into the brake and was gone.
“Who were they?” asked Durwin. He felt his heart racing in his chest.
“I do not know,” answered Toli. “We merely stopped here to choose a direction—they were on us in an instant.”
“Are you sound, young master?” the hermit asked.
Prince Gerin nodded slowly; his eyes showed white all around.
“What do you think they wanted?”
Toli squinted his eyes in the direction of the fleeing assailants. “That I mean to find out.” He glanced from the prince to Durwin quickly. “Stay with Durwin, young sir. He will look after you. I will be but a moment.”
The prince seemed about to protest, but shut his mouth and obeyed.
“Be careful, Toli. You have no weapons.”
“Return to the field at once,” ordered Toli. “I will meet you there directly.”With that he urged Riv forward into the undergrowth after the mysterious men.
9
Some wickedness is afoot,” said Durwin quietly. “I feel it. There is evil close about.”
Prince Gerin peered at the hermit closely. The boy set his jaw and stared ahead grimly. The act reminded Durwin of another who had faced trouble with the same silent resolve. How very like his father the young prince was.
They were riding back along the trail—the way Toli and the prince had come—when Durwin put out a hand and they stopped. “Listen!” he hissed. Both cocked their heads to one side. They heard a rustle in the bushes behind them along the path.
“Perhaps Toli is returning,” offered the prince.
Durwin felt the darkness around him increase. He could almost see it as a presence, feel its desperate strength. It occurred to him that he had encountered such a malignant force before, and in exactly the same way—a long time ago.
“We must run for it!” he whispered harshly. Gerin acted quickly and without question. With a snap of the reins, the two horses leaped away. They charged along the winding forest path toward the safety of the open plain. They had not run far before they met two men in the path ahead, wearing the same dark clothing as the others they had encountered. The men waved swords in front of the horses and shouted fiercely. The horses stopped and turned. Durwin pulled his mount around, and Gerin did the same, but as they made to retreat, two more ruffians stepped out onto the path behind them.
“There!” cried Durwin, pointing into the brush. He hesitated and allowed the prince to flash past and then darted after him.
But the pony became entangled in the undergrowth and went down. Prince Gerin yelped as he was pitched over his mount’s head to the ground, where he landed with a grunt.
“Hurry!” shouted Durwin. “Get back in the saddle! Hurry!”
The boy leaped back to his feet and grabbed at the dangling saddle even before the animal had regained its legs. “Ride!” shouted Durwin. “Ride!”
The hermit glanced down and saw hands reaching out for him. He slashed down with the reins and heard someone curse. He spurred hi
s mount after the fleeing prince, but felt his arm caught and held. The horse jerked away, and Durwin was hauled from the saddle, struggling as he fell.
He landed on his back at the edge of the trail; there was a flash in the shadow, and he heard the air sing above his head. He squirmed and rolled to his knees and felt a sharp sting in his side. As he half-turned and threw himself backward toward the trail, he heard the rush of air through clenched teeth and saw the glancing light arc toward him. The blow caught him low in the back; his knees buckled, and he toppled onto the trail.
Durwin put his hand to his side and felt the warm wetness seeping through his clothes. When he brought his hand away, he saw it dripping red in the dimness of the forest. The wound burned now; flames spread through him from the throbbing pain just below the ribs. He tried to raise himself, but fell back—legs numb and unfeeling.
There was a quick movement beside him, a shout in the forest a little way off, and the thrashing of branches. He heard another shout farther away and then silence.
Time gathered itself into a ball, slowed, and hovered without moving. Durwin’s mind raced. He had been struck down by an unseen sword. Instead of finishing him, the attackers had gone after Prince Gerin. He must alert Toli, but how? He tried to call out, but the effort brought a flash of white-hot pain to his side. He coughed and spat. His spittle was flecked with blood.
The wound is bad, he told himself, but no matter. He lay back, panting. Toli must be summoned. The holy hermit of Pelgrin Forest closed his eyes and began to pray.
“God Most High, hear your servant in his time of need. Guide Toli here to save us. Bring him quickly before it is too late. Keep the prince safe, I pray. Keep him safe . . .”
Dark mist rolled over him, engulfing him, and slowly his lips stopped moving. He lay back in the soft, mossy turf of the forest path-way, an ugly red stain spreading slowly beneath him.
Quentin had reached the edge of Pelgrin and started back across the plain when he hesitated. Was that a cry he heard? He stopped rock still.