The kind priest knelt with the knight’s head on his knees and pushed the man’s matted hair from his forehead. He gently loosed the bindings of the breastplate and two priests set it aside. A groan emerged from the man’s throat, shallow at first then gaining in strength.

“The vial,” Biorkis ordered. Snatching it up and dipping two fingers into the salve, the priest smoothed the healing ointment upon the man’s face. Its aromatic vapors produced an immediate result, for the soldier’s eyes flickered again and then snapped open as those of a man struggling out of a dream.

“So, he is to be with us a little longer,” said Izash. “Give him some wine. He may tell us of his errand.” The old priest stepped closer and leaned low on his staff to better hear what might transpire.

Biorkis administered the wine as the knight, without strength enough to tilt his head, allowed the liquor to be poured down his throat. In Biorkis’ hands the wine seemed to have a magical effect. Color seeped slowly back into the man’s face and his breathing now deepened where before there had been no discernible breath at all.

“Welcome, good soldier.” Izash addressed the knight respectfully. “If you feel like talking, perhaps you could tell us how you have come here, and why.”

The fair-haired knight rolled his eyes and attempted to twist his head in the direction of the speaker. The effort brought a wave of pain that washed full across his features. He sank back into Biorkis’ lap.

By now other priests had gathered close about, drawn by the summons. They spoke in low voices with one another, speculating upon the strange visitor that lay before them. The knight opened his eyes again and they shone bright and hard as if strength or will was returning. He opened his mouth to speak; his jaw worked the air but no sound came forth.

“More wine,” Biorkis called. As the cup was handed to him the plump priest tugged out a pouch from the folds of his robe. He dipped into the small leather bag and sprinkled a pinch of the contents into the drink. He then lowered the cup to the knight’s lips once more. The prostrate man drank more readily, and finishing, paused before attempting to speak again.

“Now, sir, enlighten an old busybody if you will. That is, if you have no reason to conceal your errand.” Izash inclined his old head; his white beard fell almost to the floor. A slight smile creased his lined face as if to coax the words forth with kindness.

“I am Ronsard,” the knight’s voice cracked. Another sip of wine followed that exertion. His eyes, steel gray in the silver light, looked around at the tight circle of faces bent over him. “Where am I?” he asked quietly.

“You are among friends,” Biorkis told him. “This is the holy temple of Ariel, and we are his priests. You may speak freely. No harm can reach you here.”

As if reassured by the soothing words the knight licked his lips and said with as much strength as he could muster, “I am come from the King.”

The words were simple, but they struck the ears of the listeners like thunder. The King! He comes from the King! The murmur rose to echo from the high vaulted arches of the temple.

Only Izash, still leaning upon his rod, seemed unimpressed.

“Our king? Or someone else’s?” the elderly priest asked.

“King Eskevar,” the fallen knight answered with spirit.

The name sent another ripple through the gathered priests. The King had been absent so long, his name unheard among his own countrymen, that hearing it now brought hope to all gathered there.

“And what of the King?” the old priest continued. His probing had a method to it; he was occupying the knight, making him forget his wounds and the pain which twisted his rugged features.

“I cannot say more. The rest is for the Queen alone.” The fighting man gulped air and licked his lips again. “I was waylaid last night-ambushed by outlaws who now sleep with the snow.”

The knight looked up at the faces of the priests bending over him. Fresh blood oozed from his wound, opened again by his exercise.

“Worry not,” said Biorkis soothingly. “You will remain with us until you are able to resume your errand.” He motioned to several of the younger priests to help him lift the soldier onto a pallet which had been brought. “No one will bother you for the details of your mission. Your secret is safe within these walls. Rest now. I do not like the look of that wound.”

“No!” the knight shouted hoarsely, his face contorted in agony. Then in a queer, rasping whisper, “I’m dying. You must deliver my message to the Queen. It must not wait.”

Biorkis stooped with the knight’s head gently in his hands as the man was carefully transferred to the pallet. The knight clutched the wooden sides of the bed and raised himself upon his elbows. Blood ran freely down the side of his head and neck, staining his green tunic a dull, rusty gray.

“You must help me!” he demanded. “One of you must go in my stead to the Queen.” With that he fell back in a swoon upon his bed. The color had run from his face. He appeared dead to those who looked on in fear and wonder.

The priests glanced from one to another helplessly. Biorkis stood, his hands dripping with the knight’s fresh blood. He searched the faces of his brothers and gauged the worry there. Then he stepped close to Izash who motioned him aside.

“Here is an unwanted problem,” the old priest observed. “I see no help we can offer, save all that is in our power to heal his wounds and send him speedily on his way.”

“The delay-what of that?”

“It cannot be helped, I’m afraid.”

“Though we do all in our power to heal him, still he may die,” Biorkis objected. “He is as good as dead already.” Something in the knight’s voice, his look, spoke to Biorkis. The man had certainly overcome crushing odds, and even now refused his deathbed on the strength of his message alone. Whatever the tidings, this news of the king was of the highest importance. More important than life itself.

At that moment the knight regained consciousness. He was now too weakened to raise himself up, however. A low moan escaped his clenched teeth. “He is with us still,” said Izash. “How persistent this courier is.”

Biorkis and the old priest placed their heads close to the knight’s. “Good Ronsard,” Biorkis whispered. “Do not tax yourself further for your life’s sake. We possess some skill in healing, and have often delivered a soul from Manes’ hands. Rest now. Let us tend your wounds and strengthen you to your purpose.”

“No!” the knight objected with surprising force. “There’s no time. One of you must ride to the Queen.” His eyes implored the priest.

“Sir, you do not know what you ask,” Izash answered. He waved an arm to include the whole of the assembled priests. “We are under sacred vows and cannot leave the temple, except on pilgrimage, or matters of the highest sacred import. The fate of nations, kings, and powers concerns us not at all. We serve only the god Ariel; we are his subjects alone.”

Biorkis looked sadly down upon the dying man. “He speaks the cold heart of the oath we have taken. My own heart says, ‘Go,’ but I cannot. For to leave the temple on this errand would mean breaking our sacred vows. Any priest who did that would forfeit his whole life’s work and his soul’s eternal happiness. There are none here who would risk that, nor would I ask it of them.”

The priests nodded solemnly in agreement. Some shrugged and turned away lest they be drafted to the task, others held out their hands in helpless supplication.

“Will not one of you match your life with mine? Will no one risk the displeasure of the god to save the King?” The knight’s challenge sounded loud in the ears of those around him although he’d spoken barely a whisper.

“I will go,” said a small, uncertain voice.

Biorkis, Izash, and the other priests turned toward the voice. There in the shadow of an arch stood the slight figure belonging to the voice. The figure stepped slowly forward to stand by the side of the dying knight.