The Sword and the Flame (15 page)

“So much hurt in this world,” Alinea continued. “How fragile our happiness. When it is gone, it seems as if it never was and is never to be regained. But all things move under heaven according to the Most High's will. Nothing happens that he does not see.”

“Where is the comfort in that?” asked Esme, her voice filled with dismay. “Oh, this Most High of yours—I will never understand him.”

Alinea looked kindly at the woman beside her. She gathered Esme under her arm much as she had done with Bria a few moments before, and led her along the corridor back to her rooms. “Ah, Esme, I thought I would never understand either. But Durwin would tell me, ‘Under-standing comes through faith, not the other way around.' I used to puzzle over that endlessly.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means that there are so many things about the Most High which faith alone can see. I have learned that all the reasons and all the thought in all the world still cannot bring one closer to belief. Belief must come from the heart.”

Esme shook her head slowly. They had reached her chamber door; she turned to face Alinea, taking her hands. “This god is very different from any I know. The others require neither faith nor understanding, but are content with presents and oblations. It is much simpler.”

Alinea smiled. “Yes, the old gods are simpler. But they do not care what happens to men. They do as they will. But the Most High cares very much—more than you could ever know.”

“That, at least,” said Esme as she turned to go in, “is something worth believing. Good night, my lady. Thank you for your words. Good night.”

Under the night's dark veil, the travelers moved with quick stealth. They kept to the road as much as possible, pushing eastward, avoiding the villages along the way, giving them wide berth in order to escape detection.

Prince Gerin trudged along with his head down, though he remained alert to any possibility of escape. He had overheard one of his guards say that by morning they would reach their destination. If he was going to escape, he reasoned, it would be best to try sooner rather than later.

He had thought about little else all day, having grown tired of waiting for someone to come to rescue him.
Why don't they come?
he wondered.
What can be keeping them? They must be looking for me. They must certainly know where
I have gone. Perhaps they cannot find me. Yes, that is it! Oh, this old Longbeard is a crafty
one. He has so muddled our trail that no one can find me. Yes, I must escape. Tonight.

It was settled in his mind. As soon as the attention of his guards—one standing at either side of him, and another leading his pony—wavered, or their grip slackened, he would be off. They could not catch him; he would outrun them once on horseback. That was his plan. Now he waited for his opportunity.

It came when they arrived at a crossroads. One road angled away to the north, toward the small village along the Arvin. The other led on, rising gradually as it proceeded eastward toward the Fiskill Mountains. The town of Narramoor lay straight ahead; a little farther to the east and north stood the High Temple on its plateau overlooking the valley and all the realm beyond.

They paused. “We will go around the town to the south,” said Nimrood, “and then to the temple.”

“But there is a shorter way, to the north,” protested one of the guards. Others nodded.

“Yes, shorter,” Nimrood hissed, “and more prying eyes to see us pass by.”

“We know a path—,” started the guard.

“Silence!” rasped Nimrood. He took a menacing step forward. “We will do as I say!” He thrust a finger in the man's face. “I am your master!”

The man stepped backward, tripped, and fell over a stone in the road. The other guards watched him, their attention momentarily diverted.

That was all Prince Gerin needed. Quick as the flick of a cat's tail he leaped into the saddle and snatched the reins out of the startled guard's hands, wheeled Tarky around, and started away.

“Stop him!” screamed Nimrood. “Stop him, you fools!”

Instantly the temple guards snapped to attention. The two nearest dived for him, but the horse dodged away; they landed with a grunt in the road. Another darted toward him from the side. Gerin lashed out with the reins. The man yelled and threw his hands over his face.

“You fools!” screeched Nimrood. “He is getting away!”

The young prince leaned down low in the saddle and kicked the horse in the ribs, urging him to speed. The guards dashed after him on either side, their dark shapes little more than shadows. The horse caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and shied, throwing his rump in the air. It was all Gerin could do to hold on. The guards now ringed them in, waving their hands and shouting, hoping to spook the animal.

The frightened horse bolted and bucked, tossing his head wildly. Gerin clung to the pony's mane, pressing his legs together, fighting to remain in the saddle. The horse neighed with fright and reared, kicking up his hooves at the dancing shapes around him.

Then Gerin saw an opening. Pulling the reins aside with all his might, he turned his steed toward the break in the ring. The horse saw the opportunity, too, and dashed for it instantly.

The next thing Gerin knew, the stars and moon were spinning crazily before him; he felt himself falling, sliding, tipping back over the rump of the horse. Then the ground came up hard and knocked the wind out of him.

He lay like a sack of grain tumbled into the road, unable to breathe. Rough hands took hold of him, hauled him to his feet, and shook him; breath poured into his lungs.

He peered around dazedly and saw Tarky bounding away riderless down the road, two guards scurrying after him. Had there been a flash of light? A noise? The sound of thunder still rang in his ears.

What was it that had so suddenly appeared in his path? What had caused the horse to rear and throw him? He remembered seeing the old man raise his hand high above his head . . . then the earth and sky changed places—by what force or power, the boy did not know. Blazing violet balls of light bobbled before his eyes; he shook his head, but they remained, fading away only slowly.

“The youngster has spirit,” intoned Nimrood. “But it must be bent to our purposes. Young sir, if you wish to remain alive and whole, you will abandon any further notions of escape.” Nimrood leaned close, his vile breath hot in the prince's face. “Otherwise, when they come for you, they will find nothing worth the ransom.”

A guard came up, panting. “That cursed beast is gone; we cannot catch him.”

“Idiots! Another mistake!” With slits of eyes glittering cruelly, the old man glared around at the chagrined faces encircling him, his long white beard glowing in the moonlight like a frozen waterfall. “The high priest will hear of your incompetence. I am certain he will devise a punishment to suit me.”

Nimrood turned abruptly and started off once more. The guards stood still and watched him. “Bring him.” The voice was flat and hard. The guards fell over themselves to obey. Prince Gerin was jerked by the arms and dragged along, his feet barely touching the ground, as they continued on their way.

18

A
pale moon poured molten silver into the bowl of the lake. The water shone hard and black like glass smoked in a fire, and the willow's teardrop leaves pearled with dew. Above, the sable sky held sparks of diamond stars, tips of light as cold and sharp as ice.

Quentin awoke with a start out of a stony sleep and stared uncomprehendingly around him.
Where am I?
he wondered.
How have I come
to be here?

Then he remembered rowing to the island and walking and walking, then sinking into sleep. Though his mind was a jumble of half-formed thoughts and fragments of unfinished dreams, waking in this place, he felt strangely certain that he had been drawn here, summoned, and then awakened at the proper moment by the same force that had brought him.

His senses pricked. The place seemed alive with the presence of gods; if he listened very carefully, he could almost hear the murmur of their spirit-voices calling to one another as they plied night's distant shores.

Quentin felt the nearness of these beings, and his blood quickened. The gods had gathered close about; they watched from every shadow as from behind velvet curtains, and Quentin imagined their dispassionate eyes upon him.

He rose, stiff from exertion, wrapped his arms across his chest, and gazed out across the lake. Mist rose like steam from the still water to thicken and drift in curling tendrils toward the crescent lawn like searching fingers. Quentin stepped to the water's edge and waited. The ghostly white mist seeped and flowed and eddied on unseen currents in the air, spreading ever nearer. He waited, stomach taut, the night chill stinging his flesh, the sense of expectancy almost overpowering. Blood pulsed rapidly through his veins; he could hear it drumming rhythmically in his ears. All around lay deathly silent.

Quentin stood at the edge of the silver lake and watched as the shifting vapors erected lacework walls over the mirrored surface. As he gazed out over the water, the mist rolled and parted and there emerged a dark shape drifting slowly toward him across the lake. Quentin saw that it was a small boat gliding silently from the wreathing vapors.

No oarsman rowed the vessel; no pilot steered. Wide of hull and low in the water, it drew nearer and came at last to rest at the king's feet, bumping softly against the grass-covered bank.

He lifted his foot cautiously and stepped into the mysterious craft—as if he thought that it might vanish into the mist once more. But the boat proved solid enough, and Quentin sat down amidships. Then, just as silently and mysteriously as before, the ghostly vessel floated away from the shore, bearing him back across the lake the way it had come.

Sitting stiffly on the wooden bench, Quentin watched as his ship entered the encircling mist. The solid world faded from view, and he was swallowed whole into a netherworld of cloud and insubstantial vapor. He might have been floating or flying, so softly and gently did the boat ride.

Not a ripple marked their passage. Straining eyes and ears into the void, he saw and heard nothing.

After a time the mist thinned and parted, and the little craft drifted out into a shallow lagoon rimmed with the massive slabs of great standing stones.

There was some magic in this place; Quentin could feel it now, tingling over him, licking at his face and limbs with subtle fire.

Then he saw the figure.

Before him at the water's edge stood a man clothed in a long white mantle that glowed in the moon's radiant beams. He beckoned to Quentin to follow, and as the boat touched shore, Quentin stepped out and hastened after the figure.

They moved across the lawn to the giant stones, passing between them into a circle of smaller stones, many of them leaning or fallen. These stones, like others Quentin had seen in Mensandor, had once stood one upon another in rings at the worship sites of the ancients. The rings were erected in places of power where gods were said to touch the earth.

As they entered this sacred circle of stone, Quentin saw a fire burning brightly and meat roasting on spits. The white-clothed figure sat down on one of the tumbled stones that had grown thick with green moss and white-flecked lichen. The man smiled warmly and gestured for Quentin to sit. Though no words had passed between them, Quentin felt welcomed and unafraid. He watched while the man tended the spits.

The stranger was tall, his body well formed and fit, his features broad, but not coarse or heavy. There was strength in the cut of his jaw and chin. His long, dark hair swept back and was bound in a thong at the back of his head, in the manner of prophets or seers. The man's eyes were dark, quick firebrands that sparkled in the light of the campfire as he adjusted the roasting meat on the fire with his strong hands.

The fire cracked and ticked, throwing grotesque shadows over the standing stones. A thousand questions boiled in Quentin's mind, but he remained silent. No word seemed appropriate for this place. So he sat in the warm circle of light and waited.

At last the stranger reached for a nearby jug and poured from it into a wooden cup that he offered to Quentin. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes!” replied Quentin, startled that the man should speak.

“Good.” He laughed, the sound deep and resonant—an earth sound, the sound of forest and hill and streams rolling to the sea.

Quentin laughed too, caught up in the delight of that voice.

“I thought you might be hungry, so I made you something to eat,” explained the mysterious host. “It has been a long journey, and you have ridden far.”

“How did you know?”

His host only smiled and replied, “I know a great many things about you.”

There was something familiar, hauntingly familiar, about the man; his voice and manner Quentin was certain he had known before. But where? The memory eluded him. “There are many who might make a similar claim,” said Quentin. “My name is well enough known.”